Robert  D.  Joyce. 


BALLADS  OF  IRISH  CHIVALRY; 


wigs  unit  fltiems. 


BY 


ROBERT  DWYER  JOYCE,  M.D.,M.R.I.A. 


COMPLETE  EDITION. 


ILLUSTRATIONS  BY  JOHN  O’HEA,  DUBLIN. 
ENGRAVING  BY  P.  X.  KEATING,  BOSTON. 


BOSTON: 

3?  ^ T ]R,  I C K DONAHOE. 

1872. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1871, 
By  PATItICK  DONAHOE, 

In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


12613 


Electrotyped  at  the  Boston  Stereotype  Foundry, 
No.  19  Spring  Lane. 


DEDICATION. 


TO  MY  SON  GARRIE. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2016 


https://archive.org/details/balladsofirishchOOjoyc 


CONTENTS 


BALLADS. 


PAGE 


Ballad  of  Barnakill 160 

Ballad  of  Young-  Brian ; or,  the 
Battle  of  Athenree 98 

Clontarf;  or,  the  King’s  last 

Battle 154 

Crossing  the  Blackwater,  A.  D. 

1603 196 

Dunlevy 92 

Fair  Gwendoline  and  her  Dove.  58 

Kilbrannon 75 

Lady  Marion 83 

Little  Thomas 72 

Mary  Lombard 170 

Maud  of  Desmond 200 

Peter  Crowley  ; or,  the  Worth 
of  a Dead  Man 187 

Romance  of  Meergal  and  Gar- 
mon  217 

Romance  of  the  Golden  Spurs.  212 

Romance  of  the  Black  Robber  . 81 

Romance  of  the  Golden  Hel- 
met  55 

Rossnalee 130 

Rose  Condon 122 

Romance  of  the  Stone  Coffin.  . 113 
Romance  of  the  Banner 116 


PAGE 

Romance  of  the  Fairy  Wand.  . 105 
Sarsfield’s  Ride;  or,  the  Am- 


bush of  Sliav  Bloom i79 

Sir  Donal 162 

The  Dying  Warrior 186 

The  Enchanted  War-Horse.  . . 173 

The  Well  of  the  Omen 169 

The  Prince  of  the  North  Coun- 

trie 152 

The  Lady  of  the  Sea 149 

The  Burning  of  Kilcoleman.  . 214 
The  Death  of  O’Donnell,  A.  D. 

1257 209 

Tyrrell’s  Pass,  A.  D.  1579.  . . . 203 
The  Red  Rose  and  the  White. . 206 
The  Battle  of  the  Raven’s  Glen, 

A.  D.  1603 198 

The  Spalpeen 191 

The  Sack  of  Dunbui,  A.  D.  1602.  193 
The  Battle  of  Knockinoss.  . . 93 

The  Siege  of  Clonmel,  A.  D. 

1650  86 

The  Two  Galloglasses 88 

The  Fairy  Mill 90 

The  Bridge  of  Glamvillan  ...  76 

The  Dying  Ballad  Singer.  ...  79 

The  Battle  of  Benburb,  A.  D. 

1646 73 

The  Green  Dove  and  the  Raven.  68 
The  Blacksmith  of  Limerick.  . 70 

The  Battle  of  Manning  Ford.  . 60 

The  Pilgrim 132 


(5) 


6 


CONTENTS, 


PAGE 


The  Taking  of  Armagh,  A.  D. 

1590 134 

The  Baron  and  the  Miller  ...  137 
The  Sorrowful  Ballad  of  Doire- 

more 142 

The  Jew’s  Daughter 145 

The  Battle  of  Thurles,  A.  D. 

1174 128 

The  Three  Sisters 118 

The  Templar  Knight 109 

The  Battle  of  Kilteely,  A.  D. 

1599 103 

The  White  Ladye 95 


SONGS,  POEMS, 

Almansa;  or,  O’Maliony’s  Dra- 


goons  410 

Among  the  fragrant  Hay.  . . . 408 

Adieu,  Lovely  Mary 398 

Asthoreen  Machree 370 

Annie  De  Clare 330 

A Hymn  to  England 283 

Allisdrum’s  March  at  the  Batt  le 
of  lvnockinoss,  A.  D.  1048.  . 209 

An  Irish  Morning 200 

Along  with  my  Love  I’ll  go.  . 202 

A Reaping  we  will  go 250 

Address  to  an  Old  Pipe 249 

By  the  Shore 423 

Brave  Donall 315 

Come,  all  you  Maids,  where’er 
you  be 370 

Donall  na  Greine 334 

Donal  O’Keeffe’s  Lament.  . . . 300 

Diarmid  Mor 275 

Eileen  of  the  Golden  Hair.  . . 420 

Eileen’s  Lament  for  Gerald. . . 302 

Fanny 395 

Fairest  and  Rarest 309 

Fanny  Clair 340 

Fainge  an  Lae 333 

Fair  Maidens’  Beauty  will  soon 
fade  away 322 


PAGE 


The  Watch-fire  of  Barnalee: — 

Before  the  Battle 9 

The  Minstrel’s  Tale;  or,  Earl 
Gerald  and  the  Fair  Eileen.  10 
Ballad  of  Sir  Hugh  le  Poor; 

or,  the  Death-Feud 19 

Ballad  of  Dark  Gilliemore; 

or,  the  Mournful  Squire.  . . 32 

Romance  of  Donal  Roe;  or, 
the  Lady  of  Mendora.  ...  41 

After  the  Battle 54 

Young  De  Rupe 04 


SHORT  BALLADS. 


Fair  Helen  of  the  Dell 301 

Fair  Kate  of  Glenanner 293 

Fineen  the  Rover 280 

Far  away.  239 

Glenara 375 

Glenora 307 

Garryowen 272 

Gra  Gal  Machree 261 

How  Sarsfield  died  in  Glory.  . 298 

I’m  Fourteen  Years  Old  upon 

Sunday 399 

Ireland  our  Queen 371 

I wish  I sat  by  Grena’s  Side.  . 357 

I loved  a Maid 349 

Ireland’s  Freedom;  or,  the 

Drop  of  Blood 32(5 

I built  me  a Bower 321 

I still  am  a Rover 31(5 

I sit  on  the  Hold  of  Moyallo.  . 308 

I’ll  stay  at  Home 207 

I sit  beneath  the  Sunset  Skies.  255 
I’ll  deck  his  Grave  with  Flowers.  240 

Ireland,  Our  Home 230 

In  Life’s  Young  Morning.  To 


Johnny  Dunlea 390 

Johnny’s  Return 353 

'Jessy  Brien 351 

John’s  Old  Wife  of  Tullyvoe.  . 345 


CONTENTS, 


7 


PAGE 


Life  is  Bright.  Duet 420 

Lament  of  Marion  Creagh.  . * 386 

My  Love  is  at  my  Side 412 

My  Handsome  Young  Man.  . . 382 

Margread  Ban.  • 378 

Mary,  the  Pride  of  the  West.  . 373 
My  Love  is  on  the  River.  . . . 374 
Merrily,  merrily  Playing  . . . 365 

My  True  Love 366 

Margaret 348 

Moll  Roone 317 

Maryanne 313 

My  First  Love 309 

My  Flower  of  Flowers 279 

Mary  Earley. 277 

Marjory  le  Poer 254 

My  True  Love  Bright 251 

My  Geraldine 246 

My  Steed  was  weary 238 

Mary’s  Sweetheart 235 

My  Boat 228 

My  Anna’s  Eyes.' 290 

Old  Land 425 

O,  Blest  be  the  Bower 422 

Over  the  Morning  Dew 402 

Our  Song 383 

Over  the  Hills  and  far  away.  . 380 
O’Sullivan’s  Flight,  A.  D.  1603.  344 
O,  fair  shines  the  Sun  on  Gle- 
nara 285 

Patrick’s  Day 416 

Paddy’s  Proposal 276 

Roving  Brian  O’Connell.  . . . 358 

Saint  Stephen’s  Night 419 

Song  of  Galloping  O’Hogan.  . 414 
Sweet  Glenga riff’s  Water.  . . . 405 
Song  of  Sars field’s  Trooper.  . . 367 
Shane  Gow;  or,  the  Boys  in 

Green,  A.  D.  1798 355 

Sweet  Imokilly 354 

Song V 347 

Song  of  the  Forest  Fairy.  . . . 293 
Shawn  Dhas  of  Tullyelmer.  . . 288 

Snowing 281 

Song  of  Tren  the  F\airy.  . . . 226 

To  Mary 424 

There  is  a Stream 418 

The  Laborer 415 

The  saddest  Breeze 409 

The  F'aithful  Lovers 406 


PAGE 


The  Knight’s  Lay 403 

The  Boys  of  Wexford 404 

The  Linnet 400 

The  Summer  is  come 401 

The  Brigade’s  Hurling  Match.  396 

The  Jolly  Companie 391 

The  first  Night  I was  married.  393 

The  Night  before  Fontenoy ; or, 
the  Girls  we  left  behind  us.  . 394 

The  Green  Flag.  388 

The  Joy- Bells 389 

The  Withered  Rose 385 

The  Green  and  the  Gold.  . . . 381 

The  Undertakers 377 

The  Wanderer 368 

The  Holly  Tree 363 

The  Advice 360 

The  FYame  that  burned  so 

brightly 361 

The  Forsaken 352 

The  Rightful  Power 350 

The  Stormy  Sea  shall  flow  in.  . 347 

The  Lasses  of  Ireland 342 

The  Hills  of  Sweet  Tipperary.  . 336 
The  Coming  Bridal.  ......  338 

The  Wind  that  shakes  the  Bar- 
ley  339 

The  March  out  of  Limerick.  . . 331 
The  Fair  Maid’s  Lament.  . . . 332 
The  Groves  of  the  Pool;  or, 

the  Irish  Rover 328 

The  Waterfall ' . . 323 

The  Cailin  Rue 324 

The  Green  Ribbon 325 

The  Rights  of  Man 318 

There  is  a Tree  in  Darra’s 

Wood 320 

The  Oaks  of  Gleneigh 314 

The  Rapparee’s  Horse  and 

Sword 310 

The  Jovial  Christmas  Days 

long  ago 311 

The  Punch  Bowl ; or,  the  Crop- 
py’s Finger 302 

The  Drinan  Dhun 304 

The  Siege  of  Limerick 305 

To  a Bird 294 

The  Stirrup-Cup 290 

The  Blind  Girl  of  Glenore.  . . 291 

The  Girl  I left  behind  Me.  . . . 286 

This  Maid  of  mine 287 

The  Yellow  Hair 282 

To  Ireland 278 

The  Lesson.  To  my  Son.  . . . 273 

The  Little  Bird 271 

The  Locks  of  Amber 268 


8 CONTENTS. 


I*AGE 


The  Spring-  of  the  Year 203 

The  Outlaw  of  Kilmore.  . . . 205 

The  Red  Lusmore 258 

The  People 259 

The  Banks  of  Anner 200 

The  Petticoat 252 

The  Merry  Christmas  Fire.  . . 248 

The  Whig’s  Lamentation.  . . . 242 

The  Mountain  Ash 243 

The  Ensign  and  his  Banner.  A 

Brigade  Song 244 

The  Cock  and  the  Sparrow.  . . 245 
The  Cannon 236 


PAGE 


The  Flower  that  ne’er  shall 

fade 233 

The  Song  of  Lord  Goloptious.  233 

The  Mountains  High 229 

Where  are  you  going,  my  pretty 

Maid  ? 413 

Willy  Brand 341 

Whatever  Wind  is  Blowing.  . 300 
Will  of  the  Gap 232 


You’re  a Dear  Land  to  Me.  . . 241 


The  Four  Comrades.  — Page  9. 


BALLADS, 


THE  FOUR  COMRADES: 

OR,  THE  WATCH-FIRE  OF  BARN  ALEE. 


BEFORE  THE  BATTLE. 


I. 

There  were  four  comrades,  stout  and  free, 
Within  the  Wood  of  Barnalee, 

Under  the  spreading  oaken  tree. 

ii. 

The  ragged  clouds  sailed  past  the  moon ; 

Loud  rose  the  brawling  torrent’s  croon ; 

The  rising  winds  howled  in  the  wood 
Like  hungry  wolves  at  scent  of  blood. 

Yet  there  they  sat,  in  converse  free, 

Under  the  spreading  oaken  tree,  — 

Garod  the  Minstrel,  with  his  lyre, 

Sir  Hugh  le  Poer,  that  heart  of  fire, 

Dark  Gilliemore,  the  mournful  squire, 

And  Donal,  from  the  banks  of  Nier. 

hi. 

Spectrally  shone  the  watch-fire  light 
On  their  sun-browned  faces  and  helmets  bright, 
Showing  beneath  the  woodland  glooms 
Their  swords,  and  jacks,  and  waving  plumes  ; 

(9) 


10 


BALLADS. 


As  there  they  sat,  those  comrades  free, 
Within  the  Wood  of  Barnalee, 

Under  the  spreading  oaken  tree, 

And  told  their  tales  to  you  and  me. 


And  first  the  Minstrel  took  his  harp,  that  oft 

Rang  with  War’s  clangorous  music,  fierce  and  free, 

And  now  with  gentle  touch,  and  prelude  soft, 

Began  his  strain  of  simple  melody. 

Of  love  he  sang  — her  love  whose  wavy  sea 

Shines  round  the  sunny  shores  of  Desmond’s  land, 

And,  as  his  voice  arose,  wild  rhapsody 

Sparkled  within  his  eyes,  and  music  bland 

Flowed  from  the  sounding  wires  beneath  his  trembling  hand. 


THE  MINSTREL’S  TALE;  OR,  EARL  GERALD  AND 
THE  FAIR  EILEEN. 


When  love  awakes  within  the  youthful  breast, 

Its  joys  gleam  brightest  in  the  solitude 
Of  bloom-starred  vale,  or  purply  mountain  crest, 

Or  where  the  blue  doves  build  amid  the  wood ; 

There  memory  is  sweetest,  thought  is  best, 

Flowing  through  heart  and  brain  like  the  clear  flood 
That  hurries  down  the  green  glades  all  day  long, 

With  many  a dulcet  strain  of  murmuring  song. 

ii. 

In  solitude  young  Eileen  stands  by  him 

She  loves  the  best,  while  calm  skies  o’er  them  gleam, 
And  grandly  on  Cnockfierna’s  purple  rim 

Day’s  huge  orb  rests,  half  sunk,  short  space  to  seem, 
An  arch,  where  through  the  fiery  cherubim 

Might  spread  their  pinions  earthward  on  the  beam, 
And  light  upon  the  mountain  tops,  and  throw 
The  glory  of  their  eyes  on  all  below. 


BALLADS. 


11 


III. 

Young  Eileen  of  Kilmoodan  — pure  and  red 
Her  laughing  lips  as  moss-roseuin  the  sun; 

As  wing  of  raven  on  the  mountain  head 

Her  black  locks  in  their  glossy  brightness  shone ; 
Her  brow  was  like  the  snowy  lustre  shed 
By  lilies  when  the  winter’s  dead  and  gone ; 

Her  form  was  like  the  ash-tree,  young  and  light, 
Blooming  in  beauty  ’mid  the  mountains  bright. 


IV. 

She  stands  beside  her  youthful  Geraldine,  — 

The  beautiful,  the  generous,  the  brave, 

The  topmost  branch  of  Desmond’s  princely  line, 
The  bearer  Qf  the  sharp  unsullied  glaive ; 

Stately  and  straight  as  the  young  mountain  pine 
That  towers  above  Glenara’s  tumbling  wave, 

And  strong  in  battle  as  that  rushing  flood, 

And  fleet  as  wild-deer  of  the  vernal  wood. 

v. 

’Tis  at  Cnockfierna’s  foot  — the  enchanted  hill 
Where  Donn,  the  fairy  king,  hath  made  his  hall, 
To  men  ofttimes  invisible,  but  still 

By  wanderer  sometimes  seen,  at  twilight  fall, 
Bearing  its  crystal  battlements,  until 

They  seem  to  prop  the  skies,  and  glittering  all 
With  gold,  and  snowy  pearls,  and  diamonds  bright, 
That  mock  the  pale  stars  on  the  brow  of  night. 

VI. 

And  Eileen  looks  upon  her  Gerald  now, 

Then  points  unto  the  crimson  west.  “ And  see 
How  quick,”-  she  says,  44  upon  Cnockfierna’s  brow 
Yon  cloud  of  blackness  loometh ! ” Presently 
A fierce  wind  shaketh  every  forest  bough 
Save  the  light  branches  of  the  rowan-tree  * 

That  shadows  o’er  their  try  sting-place,  and  there 
No  light  leaf  trembles  in  the  troublous  air. 


* The  peasantry  believe  that  the  rowan-tree,  or  mountain  ash,  is  en- 
dowed with  great  power  against  fairy  spells. 


12 


BALLADS. 


VII. 

With  lightnings  in  its  front  and  thunder  knell, 

That  black-faced  cloud  comes  rolling  down  the  steep, 
And  flings  its  sable  darkness  on  the  dell 

Where  stand  the  startled  lovers ; wild  winds  sweep 
Far  through  the  groaning  trees  with  frantic  yell; 

Anon  a lightning  flash,  and  from  the  deep 
Green  bosom  of  the  circling  wood,  a fawn, 

Small,  beautiful  and  white,  treads  o’er  the  lawn. 

VIII. 

The  black  cloud  fades  — ’tis  bright  and  still  again ; 

The  birds  once  more  begin  their  evening  tune, 

But  fear  is  in  young  Eileen’s  heart  — she’s  fain 
To  seek  her  father’s  hall,  for  with  the  croon 
Of  the  lone  rill  beside  she  hears  full  plain 
Weird  fairy  voices  whispering  wild,  and  soon 
They’re  speeding  to  Kilmoodan’s  towers  below, 

The  white  fawn  close  behind  them  as  they  go ! 

IX. 

It  looks  on  him,  as  fast  away  he  hies, 

With  melancholy  fondness  in  its  gaze; 

It  looks  on  her  with  keen,  malignant  eyes, 

As  though  each  glance  would  kill  her;  through  the  maze 
Of  woods  Kilmoodan’s  turrets  now  arise 
Upon  their  path,  and  in  a gorgeous  haze 
Of  golden  vapor  fades  the  fawn  away 
Beside  the  barbacan  so  old  and  gray. 


x. 

The  warder  from  the  barbacan  shouts  down, 
lie  sees  Queen  Cleena*  walking  o’er  the  glade, 
With  robe  of  heaven's  own  blue,  and  starry  crown, 
But  nought  the  lover  sees,  nor  aught  the  maid, 
Save  that  light  golden  vapor  : crimson  brown 
The  twilight  steals  o’er  hill  and  forest  shade, 

As  Gerald  and  his  Eileen  gain  the  hall 

Where  feast  their  smiling  friends  and  clansmen  tall. 


* Cleena,  the  Fairy  Queen  of  South  Munster.  She  is  believed  by  the 
peasantry  to  reside  in  Carrig  Cleena,  near  Mallow. 


BALLADS. 


13 


XI. 

Next  morning  rose  in  all  its  summer  pride 
Upon  Kilmoodan’s  towers  and  leafy  wood, 

And  love,  that  scorned  all  change  of  time  and  tide, 

Swelled  high  in  Gerald's  heart,  as  there  he  stood 
Clasping  the  white  hand  of  his  beauteous  bride 
Before  the  glittering  altar ; and  a flood 
Of  joy  swept  o’er  them  when  the  rite  was  done, 

When  both  fond  hearts  in  life  and  death  were  one. 

XII. 

And  night  came  o’er  the  mountains  high,  and  clear 
The  wild  harps  rang  within  Kilmoodan’s  hall, 

Where  o’er  the  dancers’  heads  gleamed  sword  and  spear, 

And  targe  and  helm,  and  banner  from  the  wall ; 

And  Gerald  takes  his  Eileen’s  hand.  “ And  here,” 

In  accents  sweet  and  low,  he  says,  “though  all 
Dance  now  for  joy,  we  too  will  dance  for  love ! ” 

And  down  the  floor  in  circlets  light  they  move. 

XIII. 

At  once,  as  rose  the  clansmen’s  loud  acclaim, 

A dazzling  light  through  loop  and  window  shone, 

That  filled  the  broad  hall  like  a flood  of  flame, 

Blinding  the  dancers’  eyes;  and,  when  ’twas  gone, 

Hearts  throbbed  and  cheeks  were  blanched  of  knight  and  dame, 
And  stricken  with  wild  fear,  all  woful,  wan, 

Young  Eileen  stood  — her  loving  bridegroom  flown  — 

Amid  th’  affrighted  dancers,  all  alone ! 

XIV. 

Short  time  she  stood,  then  fell  and  closed  her  eyes, 

Like  a white  lily  frost-blanched  in  the  vale ; 

And  all  that  night  of  woe  and  wild  surprise, 

Wordless,  and  like  the  marble  cold  and  pale, 

She  lay  on  her  sad  couch ; but  when  the  skies 

Blushed  red  with  morn,  she  woke,  and  then  a wail 
Burst  from  her  as  she  looked  her  chamber  round 
Among  her  maids,  and  yet  no  bridegroom  found. 


xv. 

And  many  a doctor  grave  and  man  of  lore 

They  brought  to  cure  her  mind,  for  she  was  mad. 


14 


BALLADS. 


Ah ! nought  could  each  one  do,  but  loud  deplore, 

As  they  looked  on  the  bride,  her  doom  so  sad. 

At  length  they  brought  Black  Ronan  of  Kilmore, 

For  many  a spell  and  wondrous  cure  he  had, 

That  ancient  seer,  who  drank  his  first  draught  full 
Ilis  birthday  morning  from  the  raven’s  skull.* 

XVI. 

He  looked  on  her.  “ Thy  Gerald  is  not  dead ! ” 

He  cried  aloud ; “ but  ’neath  Queen  Cleena’s  chain, 
Where  Carrig  Cleena  rears  its  mossy  head, 

And  Avondhu  pours  down  the  woods  amain, 

He  lingers  in  his  grief,  with  hope  still  fed 
Of  seeing  the  green  earth  and  thee  again. 

Go  there  and  ask  for  him,  and  well  thou’lt  prove 
That  nought  but  mighty  death  can  conquer  love.” 

XVII. 

They  would  not  let  her  go ; but  one  still  noon 
Of  midnight,  when  deep  slumber  brooded  o’er 
Her  father’s  hall,  she  donned  her  silken  shoon 
And  garments  snowy  white,  and  by  the  shore 
Of  the  lond  forest  rill,  beneath  the  moon, 

She  stole  away.  Ah ! many  a mountain  hoar 
Lay  between  home  and  her  when  dewy  morn 
Glittered  like  golden  fire  on  tree  and  thorn. 

XVIII. 

With  weary  feet  she  crossed  the  forest  glen, 

With  many  a sigh  toiled  up  the  mountain  slope, 

And  sat  upon  its  ridge  to  weep,  and  then 

Went  down  into  the  woods  with  wakening  hope; 

Away  by  lone  Glengartan’s  reedy  fen, 

And  on,  where  Conail’s  mountains  to  the  cope 
Of  heaven  towered  upward  througli  the  purple  air, 

She  rested  in  the  burning  noon,  and  there  — 

XIX. 

There  laughed  a sunny  lakelet  ’mid  the  trees, 

Aye  mirroring  a ruin  hoar  and  lone, 

* About,  this  personage  many  legends  are  told  in  Munster.  They  say 
that  should  an  infant  get  his  first  draught  from  the  skull  of  a raven,  he  is 
sure  ever  afterwards  to  be  endowed  with  prophetic  powers. 


BALLADS. 


15 


Like  the  blue  bosom  of  those  fabled  seas 

Where  thunders  never  growl,  nor  wild  winds  moan. 
Over  its  azure  breast  the  wild  duck  flees, 

The  heron  broods  upon  the  shore-side  stone, 

And  from  its  secret  home  at  evening’s  gloom 
The  wary  bittern  sends  its  quivering  boom. 

xx. 

A little  bay  beside  her  from  the  lake 

Oped,  by  the  mountain  tempests  aye  unstirred ; 

The  dun  deer  to  its  margent  came  to  slake 

Their  thirst  in  the  hot  noon ; no  sound  was  heard 
The  deep  and  pleasant  stillness  there  to  break, 

Save  the  sweet  warbling  of  some  lonely  bird, 

Borne  with  the  summer  breezes  warm  and  bland, 
Murmuring  in  music  o’er  the  yellow  sand. 


XXI. 

Above  her  was  a rugged,  lonely  pass, 

Cleft  through  the  splintered  mountains  like  a gate  — 
A Titan  gate ; mass  towered  on  ponderous  mass 
Of  savage  rock  each  side  ; all  desolate, 

Naked  it  yawned,  save  where  scant  gorse  and  grass 
Spotted  its  torrid  ribs,  or  where  elate 
With  life  amid  the  stillness,  one  small  rill 
Shot  down  in  gladness  from  the  giant  hill. 

XXII. 

Now  in  that  pass  volcanic  there  appeared 
A small,  light,  spiral  cloud  slow  moving  on 
Unto  young  Eileen’s  path,  and  when  it  neared, 

Beneath  its  whirling  base,  that  snowy  fawn 
Again  looked  on  her  with  a wild  and  weird 
Light  in  its  bitter  orbs  of  fiery  tawn  — 

A threatening  light,  a keen,  malignant  ray, 

That  struck  the  poor  bride’s  heart  with  strange  dismay. 

XXIII. 

She  placed  her  hand  within  her  snowy  vest 

To  still  the  fear  with  which  that  lorn  heart  strove ; 
There  found  suspended  on  her  faithful  breast 
A golden  cross,  her  Gerald’s  gift  of  love, 


BALLADS. 


And  drew  it  quickly  forth.  “ At  His  behest, 
Whose  holy  sign  this  is,  I charge  thee  move 
From  off  my  onward  path ! ” fair  Eileen  said, 

And  at  the  word  the  white  fawn  shrieked  and  fled. 

XXIV. 

She  kissed  that  blessed  symbol ; went  her  way; 

With  sinking  heart  o’er  many  a mile  she  wept, 
And  at  the  solemn  close  of  that  bright  day 
Within  a woodman’s  hut  she  ate  and  slept  — 
Slept  long  and  sound,  until  the  yellow  ray 
Of  morn  gilt  every  hill-top ; then  she  crept 
Out  from  her  heather  couch,  and  shaped  again 
Her  southern  pathway  through  the  forest  glen. 


XXV. 

At  last  by  Cleena’s  crag  she  weeping  stood 
Within  a fairy  nook,  whose  leafy  bound 
Left  but  one  vista  for  day’s  sinking  flood 

To  light  its  dreamy  depth ; there  was  a sound 
Of  a lone  brooklet  in  a playful  mood. 

As  if  ten  thousand  golden  bees  had  found 
Amid  the  starry  flowers  their  queen,  and  made 
Their  murmuring  music  in  the  slumbery  shade. 

XXVI. 

Before  her  towered  the  crag  all  lightning  split 
With  battlemented  front  so  stern  and  high, 

As  if  the  earth  in  some  volcanic  fit 

Had  burst,  and  cast  it  upward  towards  the  sky; 
And  now,  while  red  its  topmost  spires  were  lit 
By  sunset,  Eileen,  with  a mad,  shrill  cry, 

Called  on  the  queen  her  bridegroom  to  restore ; 
But  echo  only  answered  evermore. 

XXVII. 

She  called  and  wept,  and  wept  and  called  again, 
On  the  hard-hearted  queen,  till  twilight  fell 
Upon  each  forest  hill  and  drowsy  plain; 

Then  sped  she  to  a cave  far  down  the  dell 
Where  dwelt  an  aged  hermit.  “ Moons  may  wane 
And  years  may  vanish,”  sad  he  ’gan  to  tell, 

As  she  sat  by  his  side,  “ ere  thou’lt  obtain 

Thy  bridegroom  from  Queen  Cleena’s  magic  chain. 


BALLADS. 


17 


XXVIII. 

Nathless  as  each  day  rose  she  took  her  place 
Before  the  crag,  and  called  upon  the  queen 
Her  bridegroom  to  restore,  and  her  sad  face 
In  the  rude  blasts  soon  lost  its  blooming  sheen. 
And  autumn  came ; the  winds  began  to  chase 
The  leaves  in  the  brown  woods,  and  winter  keen 
Soon  followed ; still  poor  Eileen  sat  her  there, 
Loud  calling  for  her  love  in  wild  despair. 


XXIX. 

At  length  of  Hallowe’en  the  blood-red  morn 
With  surly  glare  toiled  up  the  eastern  sky, 

And  soon  the  great  wind  blew  its  thundering  horn 
From  the  gray,  desolate  hill-tops,  and  on  high 
The  ragged  clouds  across  the  heavens  were  borne 
Over  Queen  Cleena’s  crag,  and  many  a cry 
Rose  to  their  stormy  paths  in  wailing  woe 
From  the  poor  bride  who  still  knelt  lorn  below. 

XXX. 

Ah ! there  she  knelt  before  that  fairy  crag 

With  wet  eyes,  and  beseeching  arms  outthrown; 

Yet,  answerless,  each  flinty  spire  and  jag 

Towered  to  the  heavens,  by  wild  winds  beat  and  blown : 
Ah ! there  she  knelt,  till  like  a tattered  flag 

The  noonday  sky  outspread,  and  with  loud  groan 
The  western  blast  o’er  the  dark  hills  did  urge 
Mountains  of  rattling  cloud  from  ocean’s  surge. 

XXXI. 

And  loud  the  thunder  bellowed,  and  aloud 

Plashed  down  the  roaring  rain  ; yet  love  kept  warm 
Her  heart,  though  like  a wind-bent  flower  she  bowed 
In  misery  to  the  earth.  At  length  the  storm 
With  gathering  twilight  fell,  and  o’er  a cloud 
The  moon  showed,  like  a silver  shield,  her  form, 

And  blue  the  heavens  spread  o’er  with  many  a gleam 
Of  starlight  on  brown  hill  and  thundering  stream. 

XXXII. 

With  downcast  eyes  she  knelt;  anon  she  raised 
Their  blue  orbs,  wet  with  many  a tear,  and  bright 
2 


18 


BALLADS. 


•Before  her  the  great  crag,  a palace,  blazed 

With  towers,  and  domes,  and  halls  of  golden  light; 
Through  the  tall  portal  a long  train,  that  dazed 

Her  wondering  eyes,  out  came  — bold  squire,  and  knight, 
And  lady,  and  before  them  all  most  sheen, 

With  grace  immortal,  walked  the  Fairy  Queen. 

XXXIII. 

And,  “ Come,  thou  faithful  maid  ! ” Queen  Cleena  said, 

“ I’ve  proved  thy  love  and  deathless  constancy  — 

Thy  love,  that  might  the  dull  dust  of  the  dead 
From  its  cold  sleep  awake.  O,  come  with  me ! ” 

She  took  young  Eileen  by  the  hand,  and  led 
Into  the  great  hall  golden  bright.  “And  see,” 

Again  she  said,  “ the  cause  of  thy  sad  moan, 

Thy  Gerald,  high  upon  yon  glittering  throne ! ” 

XXXIV. 

She  looked,  — her  Gerald  looked,  — but  in  his  eye 
She  saw  no  sign  of  welcome  warm  and  fond ; 

He  knew  her  not;  then  rose  a mighty  cry 

Of  woe  from  the  poor  bride.  Anon  her  wand 
Queen  Cleena  took,  and  with  a mournful  sigh 
Of  disappointed  love  and  sad  despond 
She  laid  it  on  his  brow : from  fairy  charms 
He  woke,  and  clasped  his  young  bride  in  his  arms. 

XXXV. 

“Now  choose  thee,”  said  the  mournful  queen  again, 

“ ’Tween  earth  and  this  immortal  palace  grand.” 

“ I choose,”  Earl  Gerald  said,  “ my  broad  domain 
And  faithful  bride.”  Young  Eileen  took  his  hand, 
With  joyous  heart,  ’mid  that  resplendent  train 
Of  dames  and  knights,  and  out  from  Fairyland 
She  led  him  through  the  golden  palace  door 
Into  the  world  of  mortal  life  once  more. 

XXXVI. 

And  many  a horseman  spurred  when  morning  flashed 
O’er  the  hills’  ruby  cones,  by  dale  and  down, 

The  news  to  tell,  and  many  a weapon  clashed 

On  gladsome  shield  from  wall  of  tower  and  town ; 


Eileen  and  the  Fairy  Queen.  — Page  18. 


BALLADS. 


19 


From  where  old  Ventry’s  sands  are  murmuring  lashed 
By  the  gray  waves,  to  Gaultee’s  stony  crown, 

The  harps  rang  in  each  joyful  Desmond  hall 
For  the  brave  bridegroom  freed  from  fairy  thrall. 


“ Gentles,”  the  Minstrel  said,  “ my  harp  is  still; 

Rake  up  the  brands,  and  raise  the  watch-fire’s  glow ; 
Hand  round  the  brimming  bowl ; I’ll  drink  my  fill 
To  the  fair  maids  we  loved  long,  long  ago. 

Sir  Hugh  le  Poer,  thou  never  yet  wert  slow 
To  tell  the  tale,  or  drain  the  goblet  bright, 

However  Fortune’s  changeful  winds  might  blow.” 
Glinted  his  armor  in  the  watch-fire  light, 

As  thus  began  his  tale,  that  gay  and  gallant  knight. 


BALLAD  OF  SIR  HUGH  LE  POER;  OR,  THE 
DEATH-FEUD. 


I would  not  give  one  good  green  rood 
Of  the  fair  lands  by  Cloda’s  wood 
For  all  I took  in  that  fierce  raid 
Last  April  morn,  when  gallantlie 
We  stormed  the  Hold  of  Garranslade, 

And  sacked  and  burned  the  west  countrie; 
I would  not  give  one  blooming  tree 

That  bowers  sweet  Cloda’s  sunny  plain 
For  the  best  ransom  paid  to  me 
After  the  Foray  of  Bunree, 

When  each  had  six  good  captives  ta’en ; 
And  yet  I’d  give  trees,  stream,  and  land, 
Beside  my  love  once  more  to  stand 
And  hear  her  laugh  of  gay  surprise, 

Her  words  of  welcome,  warm  and  bland, 
And  look  into  her  gentle  eyes, 

And  clasp  in  mine  her  lily  hand; 

For  she  is  dear  to  me  as  life, 

My  beautiful,  my  promised  wife. 


20 


BALLADS. 


II. 

I saw  a rose-tree  by  the  rill 
As  I rode  down  from  Ballar  Hill ; 

Its  blossoms  in  the  sun  spread  out. 
Shedding  a glory  all  about. 

Woe  is  me!  full  mournfully 
I looked  upon  the  lonely  tree, 

And  thought  upon  my  true-love  fair, 
Bright  as  the  roses  smiling  there. 

hi. 

As  I came  out  from  Carrick  town, 

By  Dangean’s  wall  I sat  me  down ; 
Upon  its  ruined  tower  there  grew 
A lady  fern  of  greenest  hue. 

Woe  is  me!  full  mournfully 
Of  Mabel’s  form  it  minded  me  — 
Graceful  and  slender,  young  and  light, 
As  ever  blessed  a mortal’s  sight. 


IV. 

In  Coolnamoe  the  thrush’s  song 
Full  oft  I listed  all  day  long ; 

And  many  a morn,  by  Darra’s  moat, 
I’ve  heard  the  wandering  cuckoo’s  note. 
Woe  is  me  ! full  mournfully 
The  song-thrush,  on  the  blooming  tree. 
The  cuckoo,  making  earth  rejoice, 

But  mind  me  of  my  Mabel’s  voice. 


v. 

For  she  is  fair  and  she  is  good, 

And  fresh  as  flowerets  of  the  wood ; 
And  all  things  bright  by  hill  or  shore. 
They  make  me  think  of  her  the  more. 
Woe  is  me!  full  mournfully 
That  war  should  ever  exile  me  — 
Ever  take  me  from  her  side, 

My  beautiful,  my  promised  bride  I 


VI. 

There  is  a height  by  Cloda’s  shore 
With  a gray  crag  upon  its  crown. 


BALLADS. 


21 


And  from  that  height  a castle  hoar 
Looks  over  many  a dale  and  down ; 
And  in  that  castle  is  a room 
Where  spent  I many  an  hour  of  gloom, 
For  from  my  birth  some  malady 
Of  power  malign  had  seized  on  me, 

So  that  I was  a weakly  child, 

Cursed  with  a soul  perverse  and  wild. 


vn. 

I had  four  brothers,  tall  and  brave, 

Deft  at  the  bridle  and  the  glaive ; 

I had  four  sisters,  fair  to  see ; 

A mother  fond  as  fond  could  be ; 

My  father  was  a comely  man 
As  e’er  drew  sword  in  battle’s  van. 

But  with  their  woodland  sports,  and  all 
Their  merry-makings  in  the  hall, 

They  left  me  in  that  room  of  mine. 

Full  often  by  myself  to  pine  — 

To  make  my  unavailing  moan, 

Forgot,  neglected,  and  alone. 

VIII. 

Was  I alone  ? No ! In  that  room 
Strange  shapes  arose,  as  evening’s  gloom 
Lowered  from  the  dusky  hills  each  day, 
And  kept  me  company  alway. 

Wild,  shadowy  forms  would  then  arise, 
And  pierce  me  with  their  searching  eyes  — - 
Vast  shades  of  saffron-kilted  chiefs, 

With  beards  like  foam  on  Burren’s  reefs ; 
Huge  Danes,  with  looks  of  fire  and  bale, 
Dim  glimmering  in  their  shirts  of  mail ; 
Stern  Norman  knights,  with  hearts  as  hard 
As  the  blue  flints  of  Blaynamard, 

Came  in  their  iron  panoply, 

Each  in  his  turn,  and  gazed  on  me, 

With  many  another  phantom  train  — 

The  spawn  of  my  distempered  brain. 

IX. 

At  morning,  too,  the  playful  elves, 

Who  in  the  lone  raths  hide  themselves, 


22 


BALLADS. 


Came  from  each  glen  and  forest  glade, 
And  many  a gambol  round  me  played ; 
They  made  me  laugh,  and  when  it  smote 
The  warders’  ears  beside  the  moat, 

They  crossed  themselves,  all  shuddering, 
And  said  I was  no  earthly  thing, 

But  a young  sprite  the  Daoine  Shee  * 
Had  brought  and  left  in  place  of  me. 


x. 

Amongst  that  merry  crowd  was  one, 
An  imp  of  mischief  and  of  fun, 

From  the  green  rath  by  Cloda’s  hill, 
Who  said  his  name  was  Snodnadil;  f 
I’d  but  to  call,  and  presently 
Up  at  my  elbow  started  he, 

To  prompt  me  to  such  antics  wild 
As  ne’er  were  played  by  mortal  child : 
Alas ! one  prank  lie  made  me  play, 

I’ll  rue  until  my  dying  day. 


XI. 

One  morn,  my  father,  freres,  and  all, 

At  matin  meal  sat  in  the  hall ; 

The  steeds  outside,  all  saddled  stood, 

To  hunt  the  stag  in  Brona’s  wood ; 

When  at  my  elbow  Snod  appeared, 

With  many  an  antic  strange  and  weird 
Led  down  the  stair  with  demon  speed, 

And  bade  me  mount  my  father’s  steed. 

A moment  — and  I sat  in  selle ; { 

A moment  — with  a devilish  yell 
Of  savage  and  exulting  glee, 

I shook  the  bossy  bridle  free, 

And  pricked  the  great  steed  with  a knife 
I’d  stolen  from  Gil,  the  falconer’s  wife. 

The  steed  lie  danced  the  court-yard  round, 
Then  crossed  the  deep  moat  at  a bound, 


* The  Good  People  — the  Fairies. 

t Norman  — Irish  for  Snohad-na-Dhial : the  Devil’s  Needle  5 the  Drag- 
on-fiy. 

X belle  — a saddle. 


BALLADS. 


23 


And,  with  a short  and  angry  neigh 
Of  terror,  dashed  away  — away 
Like  lightning  down  the  forest  track, 

As  if  the  de’il  was  on  his  back ! 

XII. 

At  first  I was  of  sense  bereft, 

The  breath  my  little  body  left, 

So  fast  and  furious  was  the  speed, 

The  pace  of  that  strong  sable  steed. 

But  soon  I woke,  full  fast  to  find 
My  father  and  my  freres  behind, 

Scouring  along,  with  six  good  men, 

To  stop  my  course  through  Brona’s  glen  — 
That  fatal  gorge  of  crags  and  pits, 

Where  Bron  the  Banshee  moaning  sits. 
They  called,  but  at  their  call  the  more 
I yelled,  and  pricked  the  good  steed  sore, 
Until  I clattered  through  the  pass, 

Like  the  resounding  rocky  mass 
That,  loosened  from  the  mountain’s  cope, 
Thunders  down  Cnoc-an-Affrin’s  slope. 

XIII. 

What  heard  I,  in  that  valley  dread, 

But  vengeful  laughter  overhead? 

What  saw  I,  as  I thundered  on, 

But  flash  of  sword  and  glint  of  gun, 

And  many  a mail-clad  man  crouched  down 
By  leafy  brake  and  boulder  brown  ? 

I knew  it  was  some  mortal  foe 
That  waited  in  that  gorge  of  woe, 
Perchance  to  take  my  father’s  life, 

And  shook  at  them  my  flashing  knife, 

And  yelled  defiance,  fierce  and  high, 

Back  in  their  teeth  as  I swept  by ; 

For  though  so  small  and  slight  my  frame, 
Good  faith  ! I was  a bird  of  game, 

And  would  have  made  the  charger  stand, 
And  rushed  on  them  with  knife  in  hand,  — 
But  swifter,  swifter  sped  he  on, 

O’er  bank,  and  brake,  and  clattering  stone, 
With  mighty  and  resistless  force, 
Showering  the  blossoms  from  the  gorse, 


24 


BALLADS. 


Tearing  the  greensward’s  fretted  woof 
In  thunder  with  his  iron  hoof, 

Scattering  the  fire-sparks  from  each  jag, 
Away  from  rattling  crag  to  crag,  — 

Till  out  we  dashed  by  Cnoc-na-Ree, 

Where  dwelt  my  father’s  enemie. 

XIV. 

What  saw  I by  that  hostile  hold, 

Within  a green  glade  of  the  wold? 

A little  maiden,  fair  and  bright, 

Mounted  upon  a palfrey  white ; 

Her  face  by  golden  sunbeams  kissed, 

A goss-hawk  on  her  slender  wrist; 

A small  page  at  her  bridle-rein, 

With  long  bright  plume  of  yellow  stain ; 
Beside  them  two  young  wolf-hounds  gray,  j 
Upon  the  cool  green  grass  at  play. 

One  glimpse  I had,  and  only  one, 

As  doubly  mad  I thundered  on, 

To  mark  the  look  of  wild  surprise 
And  pity  in  her  large  gray  eyes, 

When  verged  I on  that  fairy  spot, 

And  passed  her  like  a falcon  * shot. 

xv. 

Away  with  lightning  speed  once  more 
Towards  the  great  moor  of  Ballandore, 

That  dreary  waste  of  trembling  reeds 
And  marshes,  where  the  wild  duck  feeds ; 
Where  o’er  the  deep  pools,  black  and  dim, 
The  grassy  eskers  seem  to  swim,  — 

Away,  till  dell  and  dingle  passed, 

Like  th’  arrow  from  the  arbalast, 

We  tore  through  splashing  mire  and  scrog, 
And  plunged,  half  swallowed,  in  the  bog. 

XVI. 

Ha ! was  it  thunder  from  the  pass 
That  smote  mine  ear, 

Loud  rolling  o’er  the  brown  morass, 

With  sound  of  fear, 


* A small  cannon. 


BALLADS. 


25 


When  turned  the  sweltering  steed  around, 
With  dripping  breast  and  mane, 

And  stamped  once  more  the  solid  ground, 
And  clanged  his  bridle  rein? 

No;  ’twas  the  vengeful  battle-cry 
That  came  in  that  fierce  peal, 

With  the  gun’s  loud  volley  rolling  by, 

And  the  ringing  clash  of  steel. 

Like  the  autumnal  thunder  knell 
That  shakes  the  mountains  hoar. 

From  lowland  base  to  highland  fell, 

It  rose  in  one  wild  roar ; 

Then  the  gloomy  marsh,  and  the  forest  dell, 
And  the  heavens  were  still  once  more. 

XVII. 

My  heart  swelled  in  my  troubled  breast, 
Loud  throbbing  with  a wild  unrest ; 

Bitterly  did  the  tear-drops  rise, 

And  burn  within  mine  aching  eyes ; 

For  well  I knew  that  slogan  yell  — 

It  was  my  gallant  father’s  knell. 

Once  more  I shook  the  bridle  free, 

And  bounded  off  towards  Cnoc-na-Ree, 

O’er  bank,  and  brake,  and  quagmire,  back 
Upon  that  great  steed’s  torn  track  — 

Fast  the  sweet  spot  where  I had  seen 
The  maiden  in  that  glade  of  green, 

Till  up,  with  arrowy  speed  again, 

I clattered  into  Brona’s  Glen. 

XVIII. 

Ah ! well  might  Bron  the  Banshee  tear 
Her  shadowy  robe  and  streaming  hair, 

And  raise  her  unavailing  cries, 

All  mournful  to  the  windy  skies ; 

For  there,  most  foully  murdered,  lay 
My  father,  freres,  and  men  that  day ! 

And  there,  above  my  father’s  corse,  — 

Low  bending  from  his  foam-flecked  horse, 
As  if  he’d  ridden  far  and  fast,  — 

I found  Sir  John  de  Prendergast; 

My  sire’s  firm  friend  long,  long  ago, 

But  now,  for  many  a year  his  foe ; 


26 


BALLADS. 


The  father  of  the  sylvan  maid 
I saw  within  the  forest  glade 
That  woful  morn.  Alas  ! that  she 
Was  daughter  of  mine  enemie ! 


XIX. 

With  rage  and  grief  I scarce  had  breath 
To  tax  him  with  my  father’s  death, 

To  brandish  high  that  glittering  knife, 
And  challenge  him  to  mortal  strife. 
Sadly  he  looked  down  on  his  foe 
Upon  the  bloody  turf  laid  low, 

Sadly  he  smiled  at  my  wild  wrath, 

And  turned  him  down  the  forest  patli 
With  laboring  breast  and  hollow  groan, 
And  left  me  with  the  dead,  alone. 


xx. 

I looked  upon  my  murdered  sire, 

Low  lying  in  the  gore  and  mire ; 

I looked  upon  my  brothers  brave, 

Each  grasping  still  his  broken  glaive, 

And  with  a ringing  shriek  of  dread 
Up  the  wild  valley’s  womb  I fled, 

Till,  with  commingled  fear  and  hate, 

Mad  yelling,  shot  I through  the  gate 
On  that  great  horse,  in  dust  and  foam, 

And  brought  the  direful  tidings  home. 

XXI. 

Woe!  woe!  the  keeners’  cry, 

How  mournful  it  began  ! 

Now  dying  low,  now  swelling  high, 

On  the  ears  of  the  gathered  clan ; — 
Woe!  woe!  my  mother’s  wail, 

And  my  sisters’  moans  of  fear, 

And  the  look  of  the  dead,  so  still  and  pale, 
Each  on  his  sable  bier ; 

Eleven  good  corpses  in  the  hall, 

And  my  mad  freak  the  cause  of  all. 

I cursed  that  fairy,  so  that  he 

Erom  that  fatal  morn  ne’er  came  to  me ; 

I cursed  those  heroes  grim  and  old, 

And  their  shades  did  I never  again  behold ; 


BALLADS. 


I cursed  myself,  and  that  dark  ravine, 

Where  the  murderers  slew  my  kith  and  kin ; 
But  the  murderers  never  a curse  I gave,  — 

I left  them  all  for  the  lance  and  glaive. 

XXII. 

My  mother  took  me  by  the  hand; 

I followed  quick  at  her  command ; 

She  led  me  to  my  father’s  side, 

And  looked  upon  his  corse  with  pride, 

Bor  like  a man  she  knew  he  died. 

She  placed  my  right  hand  on  his  breast, 
Where  gaped  the  mortal  wound, 

And  the  keeners  were  still  at  her  behest. 

And  the  bravest  of  the  clan  stood  round. 
She  took  my  left  and  placed  the  palm 
Upon  his  brow  so  cold  and  calm, 

And  a direful  vow  she  bade  me  say, 

His  murderers  root  and  branch  to  slay. 

With  swelling  heart  that  vow  I made, 

And  the  death-feud  thus  was  on  me  laid. 

XXIII. 

The  suns  of  ten  long  years  had  burned 
O’er  widow,  and  son,  and  clan, 

And  the  light  of  health  to  mine  eyes  returned 
I’d  grown  a stalwart  man; 

Spearing  the  salmon  in  the  floods, 

Hunting  the  grim  wolf  through  the  woods, 
The  dun  deer  up  the  mountain  track, 

Fighting  in  many  a bold  attack  — 

And,  comrades,  by  the  blessed  sun, 

For  many  a mile  there  was  not  one 
Could  manage  the  battle  charger  free, 

Or  handle  the  bonnie  lance  with  me  ! 

XXIV. 

In  those  long  years  of  blood  and  strife 
Why  took  I not  my  foeman’s  life  ? 

Why  fell  I not  upon  his  clan. 

Nor  slew  them  all,  both  child  and  man? 
You’ll  hear.  Within  the  secret  wood 
I met  that  maiden  fair  and  good  — 


28 


BALLADS. 


The  maiden  of  the  goss-hawk  gray, 

And  little  page  so  bright  and  gay ; 

The  daughter  of  my  father’s  foe 
I’d  seen  upon  that  day  of  woe ! 

She  loved  me,  earthly  things  above, 

I loved  her  with  an  equal  love ; 

And  day  by  day,  when  winds  were  bland, 
And  flowers  were  blooming  o’er  the  land, 
We  met  within  the  forest  bower 
For  many  a blissful,  secret  hour,  — 

Or  by  the  streamlet’s  vocal  shore, 

And  told  our  love-vows  o’er  and  o’er. 


XXV. 

Alas ! that  love  must  bow  to  hate, 

That  red  revenge  its  ire  must  sate ! 

One  day  my  mother  summoned  all 
Our  warlike  clan  round  Cloda’s  hall, 
And  sneered,  and  told  them,  every  one, 
I was  not  like  my  father’s  son, 

Else  I had  met  my  foeman  stout, 

And  fought  the  bloody  death-feud  out. 


XXVI. 

With  burning  heart  and  brow  full  black 
I threw  my  harness  on  my  back, 

Ilesolved  my  foeman’s  hold  to  sack, 

And  give  it  o’er  to  fire  and  wrack ; 

For  then,  as  now,  there  was  no  law 
For  injuries,  but  the  sword  to  draw; 

And  then,  as  now,  the  armed  hand 
Was  the  best  Brehon  * in  the  land. 

I mounted  my  battle-charger  free, 

And  I placed  my  lance  beside  my  knee ; 
High  in  the  sun  by  Cloda’s  shore 
I raised  the  banner  of  Le  Poer. 

Merrily  on  that  river  marge 
Glittered  the  light  on  helm  and  targe ; 
Merrily  did  the  sunbeams  strike 
On  the  glancing  points  of  sword  and  pike ; 
Merrily  did  the  war-pipes  play, 

Yet  my  heart  was  sad  as  we  marched  away. 


* Brehon  — a judge. 


BALLADS. 


29 


XXVII. 

As  we  marched  down  through  Brona’s  Glen 
I made  a vow  unheard  of  men  — 

Whatever  fortune  happed  that  day, 

De  Prendergast  I would  not  slay ; 

However  went  the  coming  fight, 

To  save  the  daughter  pure  and  bright, 

And  bear  her  off  to  realms  afar, 

Where  we  might  love  ’neath  another  star  — 
Might  love,  from  hate  and  death-feud  free, 
In  some  happy  land  beyond  the  sea. 

XXVIII. 

Up  for  the  storming  of  the  gate 
Bushed  the  fierce  clan  with  hearts  elate, 
That  vengeance  was  their  own  at  last 
Upon  the  stout  De  Prendergast. 

And  there  a welcome  warm  they  got 
Of  molten  pitch  and  leaden  shot, 

That  laid  their  bodies  many  a row 
The  barbican’s  bloody  gate  below. 

Then  rose  my  hot  blood  boiling  high, 

And  the  light  of  battle  lit  mine  eye 
To  see  the  sudden  sally  out, 

The  swaying  onset  stern  and  stout, 

To  hear  the  opposing  clansmen  shout, 

And  rattling  steel  and  roaring  rout ; 

And  — as  a charger  that  from  far 
Hears  the  loud  clangor  of  the  war, 

Neighs  fierce  and  shrill,  and  in  his  might 
Bursts  through  the  thickest  of  the  fight  — 
So  rushed  I up  the  castle  height, 

And  raised  the  war-cry  of  my  clan, 

And  stormed  the  stubborn  barbican ! 


XXIX. 

Bloody  were  pike  and  partisan, 

When  through  the  gateway  rushed  the  clan ; 
Bloody  were  axe,  and  skene,  and  sword, 
When  ’cross  the  court-yard  fast  we  poured, 
Tumultuous  as  the  mountain  flood 
That  devastates  some  lowland  wood. 

My  blood  was  hot,  my  passion  high, 

As  first  in  that  wild  rush  went  I. 


30 


BALLADS. 


I saw  my  foeman  ’mid  the  dead 
Brandish  a huge  mace  o’er  his  head ; 

I marked  his  eye,  so  cold  and  stern, 

Glitter  like  those  the  mountain  ern 

Casts  savagely  upon  his  prey 

Down  from  his  rock  so  steep  and  gray ; 

I saw  him  strike  three  clansmen  down 
With  his  iron  mace,  through  helm  and  crown. 

I thought  upon  my  murdered  sire, 

And  rushed  on  him  with  eyes  on  fire ; 

For  the  devil  is  strong  and  the  flesh  is  weak, 
And  we  cannot  keep  the  vows  we  speak. 

I smote  him  with  my  bloody  sperthe, 

And  dashed  him  sorely  to  the  earth ; 

Sore  and  heavy  was  the  stroke, 

His  good  steel  basnet  bar  it  broke, 

And  laid  him  on  his  back  before 
The  archway  of  his  castle  door. 

I placed  my  knee  upon  his  breast, 

And  raised  my  skene  on  high ; 

Unshriven  all,  and  unconfessed, 

He  was  about  to  die  ; — 

I raised  my  skene  his  life  to  take, 

When  the  solid  court-yard  seemed  to  quake, 
And  I heard  a sound  like  the  sounds  that  break 
From  the  wings  of  birds  o’er  the  wild  sea  lake 
When  storms  are  in  the  sky. 

I looked  — and  by  the  Holy  Rood, 

Amid  that  scene  of  wrath  and  blood, 

My  father’s  shade  before  me  stood ! 

XXX. 

He  raised  his  shadowy  hand 
Slowly  and  silently  — 

A strange,  weird  look  of  stern  command 
In  his  fixed  eye  as  he  gazed  on  me. 

He  spoke ; his  words  were  like  the  tone 
Of  runnels  heard  remote  and  lone 
’Mong  mountain  woods  — now  strangely  clear, 
Now  dying  distant  on  the  ear  : — 

“ Strike  not ! ” he  said ; “ for  now  I know 
De  Prendergast  was  ne’er  my  foe ; 

True  friends  were  we,  long,  long  ago, 


BALLADS. 


81 


Ere  civil  warfare’s  dire  behest 
With  seeming  hate  filled  either  breast. 
That  day  he  rode  five  leagues  to  aid 
And  warn  me  ’gainst  the  ambuscade 
Of  him,  my  murderer  — Macray, 

The  robber  chief  of  wild  Coumfay ! ” 


XXXI. 

Down  upon  the  gory  sand 
I dropped  my  dagger  from  my  hand  — 
Thank  Heaven ! it  did  not  find  a sheath 
Within  his  heart  who  lay  beneath. 

I raised  mine  eyes  to  look  upon 
That  awful  shade  again  — ’twas  gone  ! — 
The  form  that  from  my  troubled  sight 
Hid  the  wild  chances  of  the  fight ; 

The  voice  that  from  my  spell-bound  ear 
Shut  out  the  battle’s  sounds  of  fear ! 

XXXII. 

I sprang  unto  my  feet,  and  back 
Turned  my  clan  from  the  attack ; 

Stopped  the  battle’s  thundering  din, 
Raised  the  chief  and  bore  him  in,  — 

In  to  where  my  long-loved  maid 
For  the  souls  departing  prayed ; 

There  I sat  De  Prendergast  — 

He  and  I were  friends  at  last. 

Night  came.  When  morning  rose  again, 
Together  through  the  mountain  glen 
Up  we  marched,  with  sword  and  fire, 
Fought  the  murderers  of  my  sire 
With  our  clansmen,  bold  and  stanch, 

And  slew  them  all,  both  root  and  branch ! 
And  scarce  one  happy  week  was  o’er, 
When  the  clans  by  Cloda’s  shore 
Stood  beneath  the  sun  to  see 
The  plighting  of  my  love  and  me ! 


82 


BALLADS. 


He  ceased,  and  looked  upon  Dark  Gilliemore,  — 

Dark  Gilliemore,  the  Squire  of  Dalian  Green. 

“ Sir  Squire,”  he  said,  “ since  first  a lance  I bore 
With  thee  in  battle’s  van,  I’ve  ever  seen, 

With  saddened  mind,  thy  dark  and  mournful  mien. 

What  makes  thee  such  a gloomsome,  lonely  man  ? 
Hast  thou  some  tale  to  tell  of  sorrow  keen  ? ” — 

The  squire  sat  silent  for  a little  span, 

Then  heaved  a rueful  sigh,  and  thus  his  tale  began  : — 


BALLAD  OF  DARK  GILLIEMORE;  OR,  THE 
MOURNFUL  SQUIRE.* 


i. 

I pledge  ye,  comrades,  in  this  cup 
Of  usquebaugh,  bright,  brimming  up ; 
And  now,  while  howls  the  tempest  rude 
Around  our  camp-fire  in  the  wood, 

I’ll  tell  my  tale,  yet  sooth  to  say, 

It  will  be  but  a mournful  lay. 


ii. 

Glenanner  is  a lovely  sight, 

Oun-Tarra’s  dells  are  fair  and  bright, 

Sweet  are  the  flowers  of  Lisnemar, 

And  gay  the  glynns  ’neath  huge  Ben  Gar ; 

But  still,  where’er  our  banner  leads, 

’Mid  tall  green  hills  or  lowland  meads, 

By  storied  dale,  or  mossy  down, 

My  heart  goes  back  to  Carrick  town. 

hi. 

By  Carrick  town  a castle  brave 
Towers  high  above  its  river  wave, 

Well  belted  round  by  wall  and  fosse 
That  foot  of  foe  ne’er  strode  across. 

* “ They  shot  her,”  said  the  Gillie  Grumach,  i.  e.,  the  Mournful  Page 
or  Squire , “ and  I bore  her  to  the  peaked  mountain  in  the  east,  and  made 
her  a grave.”—  Story  of  the  Gillie  Grumach. 


BALLADS. 


33 


Look  on  me  now  — a man  am  I 

Of  mournful  thoughts  and  bearing  sad, 
Yet  once  my  hopes  flowed  fair  and  high, 
And  once  a merry  heart  I had, 

For  I was  squire  to  Ormond  then, 

First  in  his  train  each  jovial  morn 
He  flew  his  hawks  by  moor  and  fen, 

Or  chased  the  stag  by  rock  and  glen 
With  bay  of  hound  and  mort  of  horn. 

IV. 

Within  that  castle’s  mighty  hall 
I saw  full  many  a festival, 

When  wild  harps  rang  and  gitterns  played, 
And  belted  knight  and  noble  maid 
Danced  merry  measures  on  its  floor, 

In  those  lost,  pleasant  days  of  yore. 

Within  its  tilt-yard,  day  by  day, 

I learnt  war’s  gallant  game  to  play ; 

And  there,  though  young  in  years  was  I, 
Soon  grew  I well  my  trade  to  ply ; 

With  the  steel  sparth  * to  hew  and  hack 
Through  buff-coat  strong  and  iron  jack; 

To  spring  on  steed  in  full  career, 

And  wield  the  sword  or  couch  the  spear. 
And  when  our  tilt-yard  games  were  done, 
Or  chase  was  o’er  each  set  of  sun, 

Gayly  we  ruffled  through  the  town, 

And  spent  full  many  a jovial  crown. 

v. 

Young  Ormond  was  a goodly  lord 
As  ever  sat  at  head  of  board. 

If  Europe’s  kings,  some  festal  day, 

Sat  round  the  board  in  revel  gay, 

And  he  were  there,  and  I in  hall, 

The  seneschal  to  place  them  all, 

I’d  place  him,  without  pause  or  fault, 
Among  their  best  above  the  salt. 

You  need  not  sneer,  Sir  Hugh  le  Poer, 

Nor  you,  young  Donal  of  Killare; 

* Sparth,  or  sperthe;  a battle-axe. 

3 


34 


BALLADS. 


I’d  prove  my  words,  ay,  o’er  and  o’er, 
With  skian  in  hand  and  bosom  bare, 

Or  sword  to  sword,  and  jack  to  jack, 

For  sake  of  Thomas  Oge  the  Black ! * 

But  he  is  dead,  mo  bron  for  him, 

His  heart  is  cold,  his  eyes  are  dim,  — 

The  heart  that  all  dishonor  spurned, 

Those  eyes  that  oft  in  battle  burned 
Like  the  twin  beacon  fires  that  shed 
Their  lurid  glare  from  Cummeragh’s  head, 
Through  the  black  midnight  seen  afar, 

The  harbingers  of  border  war. 


VI. 

And  border  wars  and  hostings  free 
Full  often  then,  God  wot,  had  we; 

For  ’twas  the  time  when  mortal  strife, 

Steel  axe  to  axe  and  knife  to  knife, 

Was  waged  between  the  Butler  line 
And  the  strong  race  of  Geraldine. 

And  Desmond  was  a foeman  stout 
In  battle,  siege,  or  foray  rout ; 

With  spur  on  heel  and  sword  in  hand, 

Upon  the  borders  of  our  land, 

With  his  fierce  hobbelers  he  kept 
And  often  on  our  hamlets  swept, 

As  swoops  the  eagle  from  the  mountain 
On  the  gray  wolf-cubs  by  the  fountain, 

And  in  his  talons  bears  away, 

Before  the  howling  she-wolf’s  eyes, 

To  crags  remote  his  bleeding  prey 
To  feast  his  fledglings  day  by  day 

Where  Crotta  Clee’s  f wild  summits  rise. 

And  many  a goodly  tower  and  town 
Before  his  hot  assaults  went  down ; 

For  blood,  and  flame,  and  woful  sack 
Forever  marked  his  vengeful  track. 

Yet  oft  we  met  him  sword  to  sword, 

By  mountain  pass  and  lowland  ford, 

* Thomas,  surnamed,  from  his  complexion,  the  Black,  or  Swarthy,  Earl 
of  Ormond. 

t Crotta  Clee , the  Gaulty  Mountains. 


BALLADS. 


35 


And  turned  the  tide  of  war  again 

Far  through  each  Desmond  vale  and  glen, 

And  venged  our  wrongs  as  best  we  could 
In  torrents  of  the  foeman’s  blood. 

VII. 

The  March  winds  sang  through  bower  and  tree, 
And  shook  the  young  reeds  by  the  ferry, 

And  light  cloud  shades,  o’er  mount  and  lea, 

Ran  like  the  billows  of  the  sea, 

One  day  that  in  the  tilt-yard  we 
Were  making  merry ; 

When  swift  as  those  light  clouds  that  fled 
Over  each  vale  and  moorland  brown, 

A courier  from  the  mountain  head, 

With  loosened  rein  his  charger  led, 

Wild  spurring  down ! 

The  rushy  bog  and  treacherous  moss 
Like  the  light  plover  did  he  cross, 

And  headlong  downward  to  the  shore 
As  the  strong  mountain  stag  he  bore, 

And  swam  the  Suir,  where,  deep  and  wide. 

It  tumbled  in  an  angry  tide  ; 

Then  rode  unto  the  castle  straight, 

And  blew  his  bugle  at  the  gate. 

The  Desie’s  badge  full  well  we  knew. 

On  the  light  cap  and  folluin  blue, 

The  hasty  clansman  bore  ; 

And,  faith,  but  small  delay  had  he, 

So  eager  for  his  news  were  we, 

For  back  the  ponderous  bolts  we  drew, 

And  led  him  straight  our  chief  before. 

He  told  how  Desmond  and  his  men 
Had  crossed  Sliav  Gua’s  mountain  glen, 

A small  but  hardy  band, 

And  burned  his  chieftain’s  hamlets  free, 

And  levied  coign  and  liverie 
Within  the  Desie’s  land. 

Then  begged  the  doughty  Butler’s  aid 
To  stem  the  Desmond’s  bloody  raid. 

VIII. 

In  sooth,  his  prayer  was  not  in  vain, 

For  ere  one  hour  o’er  hill  and  plain 


86 


BALLADS. 


Many  an  eager  gillie  trode, 

And  many  a rushing  easlach  * rode, 

Till,  when  the  early  twilight  fell, 

From  Fallad  glen  to  Graffon’s  dell, 

On  turret  top  and  craggy  mount 
A thousand  war-fires  you  might  count. 

Old  Carrick  town  rang  loud  next  morn 
With  flam  of  drum  and  roar  of  horn, 

For  from  each  forest,  plain,  and  glynn, 

The  clansmen  all  had  gathered  in. 

To  me  it  was  a goodly  sight 

To  see  the  Butler’s  strength  arrayed, 

The  spear-points  glittering  in  the  light, 

The  banners  waving  on  the  height, 

The  footmen  eager  for  the  fight, 

And  horsemen  all  in  mail  bedight 
Far  spread  o’er  glen  and  glade. 

Then  Butler  issued  from  his  hall 
Among  his  gallant  clansmen  all, 

And  straightway  took  the  southern  track, 
While  we  rode  gayly  at  his  back, 

And  never  his  charger  rested  he 

By  cross  of  road,  or  fount,  or  plain, 

Until  he  reached,  where,  broad  and  strong, 
Blackwater  rushes  by  crag  and  tree, 

With  murmuring  roar  or  plaintive  song, 

’Mid  the  bonnie  woods  of  wild  AfFane.f 
And  ’mid  those  woods  we  camped  that  night, 
And  waited  but  the  morning  light 
To  fall  upon  proud  Desmond’s  path, 

And  on  his  raiders  vent  our  wrath. 


IX. 

When  morn’s  first  beams  began  to  quiver 
On  crest  of  rock  and  wave  of  river, 

A clump  of  spears  we  saw  far  south 
Emerging  from  a valley’s  mouth, 

And  knew  ’twas  Desmond  and  his  men 
By  the  great  flag  that  waved  so  proud 
Before  them  in  that  hollow  glen,  — 

By  sheets  of  flame  and  many  a cloud 
Of  murky  smoke  from  rifled  pen 

* Easlach  ; a mounted  messenger. 

t Affane  ; scene  of  the  battle  of  that  name,  on  the  Blackwater. 


BALLADS. 


37 


And  burning  cot  their  track  behind, 

And  the  great  herds  that,  like  the  wind, 
Iiushed  towards  the  river  bank  before, 

Swept  on  by  kern  and  creachadore. 

He  saw  us  by  the  ford  arrayed, 

The  Desmond  bold,  and  when  they  prayed, 
His  bearded  knights,  that  he  would  flee 
Our  onset  — stoutly  answered  he, 

With  knitted  brow  and  flashing  eye  — 

“ Though  we  are  only  one  to  three, 

Beside  yo.n  ford  I’d  rather  lie, 

Bloody  and  stiff  within  my  jack, 

Than  on  a Butler  turn  my  back.” 

And,  faith,  he  made  his  vaunting  good, 

For  in  our  teeth  he  crossed  the  flood ; 

But  when  he  gained  the  other  shore, 

Right  on  his  front  and  flanks  we  tore. 

Then  hoarsely  rose  the  battle  yell, 

And  fast  the  Desmond  clansmen  fell;  — 

Yet  stoutly  still  our  charge  they  met, 
Though  gallantly  to  work  we  set, 

Until  Sir  Walter’s  petronel 

Brought  Desmond  down,  and  he  was  ta’en 
A prisoner  in  that  gory  dell, 

’Mid  the  bonnie  woods  of  wild  Affane. 
’Twas  then,  as  five  tall  Butlers  bore 
The  wounded  Desmond  by  the  shore, 

“ O,  where’s  the  mighty  Desmond  now?” 
They  asked,  amid  that  battle’s  wreck ; 

He  raised  himself,  all  red  with  gore, 

And  answered,  with  exultant  brow,  — 

“ O,  where,  but  on  the  Butler’s  neck ! ” 

x. 

The  fight  was  fought,  the  noonday  sun 
Shone  down  on  banner,  glaive,  and  gun 
Of  the  proud  victors,  as  they  sped 
Back  to  their  homes  the  hills  across, 

And  on  the  vanquished  as  they  fled 
Through  tangled  woods  and  paths  that  led 
O’er  dreary  plain  and  desert  moss ; 

And  up  the  lonely  tracks  that  lie 
Along  the  huge-ribbed  hills  so  high,  — 

And  with  them,  prisoner  bound,  was  I. 


38 


BALLADS. 


XI. 

They  placed  me  in  a dungeon  strong, 

Where  distant  Mulla  winds  among 
The  leafy  woods  of  Houra’s  hills, 

Fed  by  a hundred  dancing  rills ; 

And  there  pined  I for  many  a day, 

Till  five  long  seasons  passed  away ; — 

Then,  when  they  thought  my  spirit  broke, 
They  freed  me  from  their  cursed  yoke, 

And  bade  me  wander  as  I might  — 

Yet  warned  me  ’gainst  escape  or  flight. 

I well  remember,  ay,  and  will 

Till  some  brave  foe  my  blood  shall  spill, 

The  day  I crossed  my  dungeon  door, 

And  sought  the  wild  woods  free 
The  summer  sky  was  laughing  o’er ; 

And  from  green  glen,  and  height,  and  shore 
The  jocund  birds  their  songs  did  pour 
So  merrilie ; 

And  to  mine  eyes  all  nature  wore 
A look  of  wondrous  brilliancy. 

An  infant’s  strength  was  more  than  mine 
As  I went  forth  that  morn ; 

I thought  each  stream  a draught  divine, 

I rested  ’neath  each  blossomed  thorn, 

Or  slowly  strayed  o’er  height  and  hollow, 
Long  draughts  of  balmy  air  to  swallow. 

XII. 

My  strength  returned.  One  golden  eve 
As  up  the  hills  I clomb, 

Sweet  dreams  within  my  heart  to  weave, 
And  think  upon  my  far-off  home, 

I gained  a valley  lone  and  deep, 

Where  Ounanar’s  bright  waters  leap 
And  fill  the  thick  green  woods  with  song, 
Wild  bounding  through  the  dells  along. 

I sat  me  by  the  sounding  stream,  — 

I sat  me  in  a pleasant  dream  ; 

For  who  could  pass  that  valley  fair 
And  stop  not  for  a moment  there? 

The  green  ash  o’er  the  torrent  grew, 

The  oak  his  strong  arms  wildly  threw 


BALLADS. 


39 


To  the  blue  heavens,  as  if  to  clasp 
Some  wandering  cloudlet  in  his  grasp; 
And  all  around  my  seat  was  still, 

Prom  far  Knoekea  to  Corrin  hill. 

The  leafy  branches  thick  and  green 
On  all  sides  made  a shadowy  screen, 

Save  where  a little  vista  showed 
Beneath  me  where  the  torrent  sheen, 

A mimic  lake  all  smoothly  flowed, 

With  many  a sparkling  ripple  stealing 
Over  its  breast  of  radiancy,  — 

Wild  beauties  on  its  banks  revealing; 
And,  O,  what  it  revealed  to  me ! 

XIII. 

There,  on  a green  and  mossy  stone, 

A young,  bright  maiden  stood  alone 
Gazing  upon  the  foam-wreaths  white 
That  sparkled  on  their  pathway  rude, 
Filling  the  leafy  nooks  with  light, 

And,  O,  it  was  so  fair  a sight ! 

Methought  that  maiden,  as  she  stood, 
Some  phantom  of  a vision  bright, 

Or  lovely  spirit  of  the  wood. 

A moment  — I was  standing  tfrere 
Beside  that  maid  so  young  and  fair ; 

A moment  — and  my  heart  was  gone 
With  her  bright  face  and  sunny  hair,  — 
And,  ah ! so  sweet  her  blue  eyes  shone, 
’Twas  lost  ere  I was  half  aware ; 

A moment  — for  time  went  so  fleet, 

Long  seasons  had  been  hours  to  me  — 
And  in  that  lone  and  wild  retreat, 

O,  we  were  talking  pleasantly ! 

I told  her  in  that  wild-wood  bower 
How  I was  prisoner  ta’en, 

And  how  I longed  for  that  glad  hour 
When  I might  ’scape  their  chain ; 

And  found  she  was  a captive,  too, 

For  three  long  years,  — 

A captive  from  that  sweet  land  where, 
Above  the  blooming  woods  of  Caher, 

Wild  Gaulty  to  the  skies  so  blue 
Its  tall  crest  rears. 


40 


BALLADS. 


XIV. 

It  boots  not,  comrades,  now  to  tell 
How  oft  we  met  in  that  wild  dell, 

And  how  we  loved,  and  how  we  planned 
To  ’scape,  and  reach  the  Butler's  land. 
One  morn  a brave  black  steed  I caught,  — 
My  captor’s  own  fleet  steed,  — 

And  rode  away  to  that  wild  spot 
With  headlong  speed. 

And  towards  far  Ormond,  glad  and  free, 

I bore  my  love  away  with  me. 

xv. 

But  sorrow  came  too  soon  — alas  ! 

As  we  sped  down  Glendarra’s  pass, 

The  foe  came  thundering  on  our  track 
With  matchlocks  pointed  at  my  back. 
Away  across  Turlaggan’s  rill, 

And  by  the  foot  of  Gurma’s  hill, 

With  gory  spur  and  loosened  rein, 

Tor  life  before  them  did  I strain,  — 

Away  up  Gurma’s  side  ; and  there 
A bullet  whistled  through  my  hair; 

But  when  I gained  its  summit  high, 
Between  my  foemen  and  the  sky, 

Another  hurtled  through  the  air 
And  grazed  my  side  with  sudden  smart, 
And  lodged  within  my  true-love’s  heart. 

XVI. 

Ah,  woe  is  me  ! the  look  she  gave, 

It  haunts  me  yet ; 

Its  bitter -anguish  but  the  grave  • 

Can  make  my  heart  forget. 

One  sudden  look  of  woful  pain  — 

And  she  wras  dead ; 

And  I — far  down  into  the  plain, 

O’er  rocks  and  glens  I fled, 

And  left  my  foemen  far  behind; 
Thundering  onward  like  the  wind, 

Away,  away  on  that  swift  horse, 

Clasping  close  my  true-love’s  corse ! 

XVII. 

I bore  her  to  yon  peaked  hill, 

And  scooped  her  narrow  bed, 


BALLADS. 


41 


And  laid  the  earth,  so  damp  and  chill, 
Above  my  darling’s  head. 

And,  comrades,  since  that  woful  day 
I’ve  never  known 

One  hour  of  gladness  ; and  I crave, 
When  I shall  fall  amid  the  fray, 

You’ll  bear  me  to  yon  mountain  lone, 
And  lay  me  in  my  true-love’s  grave ! 


11  Now,  Donal  Roe,  begin  thee,”  quoth  the  Squire, 
“ I’ve  spun  my  thread  of  melancholy  lore ; 

Hast  thou  no  legend  of  the  sounding  Nier? 

No  tale  of  fairy  wrath?  of  castle  hoar? 

Of  ford,  of  moated  dun,  or  haunted  shore?”  — 
Red  Donal  laughed.  “ I have  a tale,”  quoth  he, 
“I  cannot  help  remembering  evermore, 

Of  war  and  love  that  happed  long  syne  to  me 
Far  on  the  pagan  strand  of  burning  Barbarie.” 


ROMANCE  OF  DONAL  ROE;  OR,  THE  LADY  OF 
MENDORA. 


In  every  nook  and  earthly  spot 
Lurks  .grief,  though  oft  we  know  it  not; 
The  freshest  blossoms  of  the  May 
Blow  side  by  side  with  foul  decay. 

The  hectic  rose-spots  on  the  cheek 
A warning  sad  will  often  speak, 

Gay  tinting  o’er  the  peach-like  skin, 
With  rottenness  and  death  within. 


ii. 

But  will  the  sunshine  gild  the  place 
Less  bright  where  human  woe  we  trace  ? 
Will  the  fresh  flower  false  odor  shed 
When  festering  weeds  lie  on  its  bed? 
And  will  young  beauty  smile  the  less 
For  life’s  gay  signals  of  distress  ? 


42 


BALLADS. 


They  will  not.  If  they  should,  then  why 
Not  pass  them  with  averted  eye, 

Walking  through  life  the  pleasant  way 
Of  sunshine  and  of  blossoms  gay, 

Ne’er  seeking  on  our  path  to  find 
Each  woful  bane  for  heart  and  mind  ? 

You  loved,  and  deep  of  sorrow  quaffed; 

I loved  as  well,  but  loved  and  laughed, 

For,  somehow,  though  enough  I had 
Of  sorrow,  still  I ne’er  was  sad, 

But  climbed  up  Life’s  tempestuous  height 
As  jovial  as  I seem  to-night. 

hi. 

Fill  me  a cup  : I’ll  drink  to  one 
Whose  head  now  bleaches  in  the  sun 
On  the  grim  gate  whose  ’battled  crown 
Lowers  o’er  Kilmallock’s  ancient  town,  — 
The  best  of  soldier-knights  was  he, 

Sir  James  Fitz  Thomas  of  Tralee. 

Cursed  be  the  heart  his  fall  that  planned,  — 
Cursed  be  the  base  and  murderous  hand 
Of  him  who  dealt  the  traitor  blow 
That  laid  my  peerless  captain  low. 

IV. 

Comrades  ! ’twere  long  to  tell  why  we 
Fled  from  the  Castle  of  Tralee,  — 

’Twere  long  to  tell  why  from  our  home 
We  sailed  across  the  sea  to  Rome. 

Enough,  we  wanted  men  and  gold 
From  foreign  wolves  to  guard  our  fold  — 

To  fight  the  foreign  enemy 
For  Ireland  and  for  liberty;  — 

Enough,  that,  far  beyond  our  hope, 

We  got  them  from  the  royal  Pope,  — 
Money,  and  ships,  and  arms,  and  men, 

To  fight  the  battle  o’er  again. 

v. 

A proud  and  gladsome  heart  was  mine 
The  morn  I saw  our  homeward  sails 
Spread  from  each  tower-like  mast  of  pine, 
And  bellying  o’er  the  sparkling  brine 
Before  the  Mediterranean  gales. 


BALLADS. 


43 


Little  that  joyous  morn  I recked 
How  Italy’s  gay  shores  were  decked 
With  cedar  groves  and  orange  bowers, 

With  villas  and  romantic  towers, 

And  painted  cots  and  princely  halls, 

And  far-off*  gleaming  waterfalls  ; — 

Little,  for  aye  before  mine  eyes 
Glittered  an  exile’s  paradise  — 

The  rolling  clouds  of  various  hue, 

The  flashing  streams  and  skies  of  blue, 

The  fern-clad  slopes  and  forest  brakes, 

The  foggy  moors  and  glistening  lakes, 

The  hills  with  heather  purpled  o’er, 

The  rock-bound,  wave-resounding  strand, 
The  villaged  vales  and  castles  hoar, 

And  green  fields  of  my  native  land. 


VI. 

Alas  ! that  home-bright  vision  gay 
Was  like  the  sparkling  ocean  spray 
That  shines  a moment  in  the  ray, 

Then  melts  to  nothingness  away  ; 

Lor  many  a brave  man’s  blood  I saw 
This  faithful  sword  in  battle  draw ; 

And  many  a long  moon  waxed  and  waned, 
Before  my  native  land  I gained. 

VII. 

Alas  ! that  he  remained  in  Rome 
Should  guide  our  gallant  fleet  for  home, 
And  left  our  enterprise  to  him, 

Stukely,  the  reckless  English  knight, 

An  outlawed  soldier,  brave  and  grim 
As  ever  dashed  into  a fight ; 

A man  full  careless  of  his  trust, 

And  fickle  as  a springtide  gale, 

Whose  promises  were  dross  and  dust, 
When  self  was  in  the  trembling  scale. 
For  when  the  close  Herculean  strait 
Was  passed,  we  knew  our  bitter  fate. 

We  steered  not  for  our  land  away, 

But  skirted  Portingallo’s  coast, 

And  joined  in  Lisbon’s  glittering  bay 
Sebastian’s  bannered  fleet  and  host 


44 


BALLADS. 


That  with  the  morning  sailed  the  sea, 

To  fight  the  king  of  Barbarie. 

yin. 

The  favoring  winds  soon  swept  us  o’er ; 
We  landed  on  that  pagan  shore, 

And  witli  high  hearts  in  strength  and  pride 
Marched  up  the  Elmahassen’s  side, 

Until,  upon  its  windings  far, 

W e reached  a sandy  region  wide  — 

The  bloody  plain  of  Alcazar. 


IX. 

’Twas  morn  : the  sun,  a disk  of  blood, 
Bose  o’er  the  narrow  stripe  of  wood 
That  skirted  Elmahassen’s  water, 

Whose  wave  like  crystal  ruby  shone, 

But,  ere  the  setting  of  the  sun, 

Ban  redder  with  the  stains  of  slaughter. 
And  as  before  that  sultry  morn 

Faded  the  pale  moon’s  silvery  shine, 
Afar  beneath  her  sinking  horn 
Upon  the  low  horizon  line 
A cloud  of  dust  extended  wide, 

And  nearer  rolled  its  threatening  tide, 

Like  a great  storm-wrack  on  the  deep, 
From  whose  grim  front  the  lightnings  leap. 
And  lightnings  bright  enough,  I trow, 
Incessant  did  that  dark  cloud  show ; 

For,  as  its  course  upon  the  sands 
It  stayed  athwart  our  halted  bands, 
Myriads  of  spears,  and  banners  proud, 
Flashed  upward  through  its  parting  shroud 
And  when  at  last  the  light  winds  blew 
Its  rolling  volumes  from  our  view, 

Before  us,  stretching  far  away, 

Glittered  the  Infidel’s  array  — 

A mighty,  multitudinous  host 
As  ever  Pagandom  could  boast ! 


x. 

Gallants  ! good  armies  have  I seen 
In  this  old  fighting  land  of  ours, 


BALLADS. 


45 


The  best  of  England’s  hostile  queen, 

The  best  of  Ormond’s,  Desmond’s  powers ; 
But  never  since  that  morn  when  we 
Formed  on  the  sands  of  Barbarie, 

To  meet  King  Muley’s  chivalrie, 

Heard  I such  rolls  of  drum  and  trqrnp, 
Saw  I such  warlike  braverie, 

Barbaric  pride  and  martial  pomp. 


XI. 

And  our  own  host  in  martial  show 
Was  not  one  whit  behind  the  foe ; 

From  front  to  rear,  from  flank  to  flank, 
Wave  after  wave,  each  stately  rank, 
Shimmered  beneath  the  burning  ray 
Like  sunset  on  the  ocean  spray, 

Or  rain-wet  woods  ’neatli  shine  and  breeze ; 
Magnificent  in  blazonries 
Of  war-steeds’  gay  caparisons,  ’ 

Of  gilded  helms  and  hacquetons, 

Of  silver  shields  and  crests  of  gold, 

Of  banners  glorious  to  behold ; 

Pennon,  and  scroll,  and  glistening  plumes 
Bright  as  the  tints  May  morn  assumes 
When  from  his  deep  cerulean  bed 
The  day-god  lifts  his  flaming  head. 

XII. 

Along  our  front,  from  wing  to  wing, 

Like  the  bright  sun  all  glittering, 

Statelily  rode  the  youthful  king ; 

Noble  and  gallant  knight,  and  squire, 

And  page  behind  him  many  a one, 

With  surcoats  like  the  clouds  of  fire 
Which  gleam  around  the  setting  sun. 

And  bright,  e’en  ’midst  that  dazzling  throng, 
I saw  two  pages  sweep  along; 

So  much  alike,  could  scarce  be  seen 
A difference  the  two  between, 

Save  that  the  one  had  eyes  of  blue, 

The  other,  dark,  of  darkest  hue, 

And  sturdier  frame  and  mien  more  free,  — 
Two  brothers  fond  they  seemed  to  me. 


46 


BALLADS. 


XIII. 

You  know  me  passing  well,  good  freres, 
I’m  not  much  given  to  qualms  and  fears ; 
But  when  amid  that  blaze  of  light, 

With  helmet  crown  all  jewel-bright, 

And  bearing  confident  and  high, 

The  king  swept  like  a meteor  by, 

I saw  within  his  eagle  glance 
A weird  that  pierced  me  like  a lance ; 

And  a dark  thought,  — say  what  you  will, 
A black  presentiment  of  ill, 

Smote  my  high  heart,  now  all  aflame 
Beneath  his  flag  to  win  a name,  — 

Smote  it  as  water  smites  the  fire 
And  turns  it  into  dust  and  mire. 

XIV. 

I’ll  tell  you  how  my  rede  was  read. 

I’ll  tell  you  how  the  black  weird  sped. 


xv. 

A furlong’s  length  of  level  sands 
Between  those  myriad  hostile  bands 
Burning  for  blood,  with  flashing  brands 
Beady  for  battle  in  their  hands ; 
Unlimbered  guns  and  matches  lit, 

And  good  steeds  champing  at  the  bit,  — 
Comrades  ! you  know  what  soon  befell 
’Twixt  Christian  and  brown  Infidel. 

xvi. 

The  sun  had  risen  high  in  air, 

And  smote  the  sands  with  torrid  glare, 
And  stilled  a moment  was  the  hum 
Of  voice,  of  cymbal,  and  of  drum, 
Portentous  of  the  storm  to  come ; — 

So  still,  I heard  the  rustling  quiver 
Of  the  green  trees  beside  the  river. 

The  banners  by  the  hot  winds  stirred, 
Till,  breaking  through  the  pause  profound 
Like  the  shrill  battle-clarion’s  sound, 
Sebastian  gave  the  word ! 


BALLADS. 


Then,  like  Atlantic’s  deafening  roar 
On  stormy  Corco-Bascain’s  shore, 

The  ready  foeman’s  answering  shout  - 
Along  his  bristling  lines  burst  out. 

Many  a sharp  spur’s  rowel  drank 
At  the  wild  charger’s  reeking  flank ; 

Many  a sword-hand  high  was  raised, 

And  musketoon  and  matchlock  blazed; 
Many  a cannon,  fierce  and  hot, 

Belched  through  the  lines  its  plunging  shot, 
As  o’er  that  level  space  did  pass 
Each  rattling  wall  of  steel  and  brass, 

And  midway  met  with  thundering  shock 
Loud  as  an  iceberg  ’gainst  a rock. 

XVII. 

Through  the  hot  noon  till  eve  we  fought, 
And  many  a deed  of  valor  wrought, 

And  thrice  that  day  our  battle  edge 
Pierced  through  the  foemen  like  a wedge, 
Though  ’gainst  King  Muley’s  myriad  men 
We  counted  scarcely  one  to  ten. 

Many  an  Infidel  went  down 
With  riven  breast  or  cloven  crown; 

Many  a Christian  soldier  true, 

On  the  red  field  his  last  breath  drew ; 

That  knight  of  knights,  bold  Christovale, 
’Mid  heaps  of  slain  lay  still  and  pale ; 

And  Stukely,  like  a forest  boar, 

Reeking  with  Saracenic  gore, 

Sank  in  the  press  to  rise  no  more. 

XVIII. 

’Twas  then,  as  shot  the  evening  light 
Aslant  upon  the  roaring  fight, 

King  Muley  Hassan’s  main  array 
Furious  and  fast  around  us  sped, 

As  rush  the  waves  some  stormy  day 
Round  Arran’s  precipices  gray, 

In  bellowing  thunder  hoarse  and  dread, 
With  blinding  fogs  of  hissing  spray, 

And  the  great  clouds  rolling  overhead ! 


48 


BALLADS. 


So  swept  they  round  us,  front  and  flank, 
Scattering  each  serried  square  and  rank, 
Until  our  broken  bands  they  bore 
Down  to  the  Elmaliassen’s  shore. 

XIX. 

There,  as  a gallant  ship  that  rides 
A long  day’s  space  the  storm-beat  tides, 

And  still,  both  wind  and  wave  defying, 

Keeps  colors  at  the  masthead  flying 
Till,  powerless  ’mid  night’s  baleful  glooms, 
Sudden  it  sinks  from  mortal  ken 
In  that  dread  gulf  whose  water  booms 
Otf  the  wild  shore  of  Loffoden,  — 
Sebastian,  who,  amid  the  storm, 

All  day  reared  high  his  martial  form, 

His  meteor  sword  in  circles  flashing, 

His  war-horse  through  the  foemen  dashing, 
Now  ’mid  the  splintering  spears  and  crashing, 
With  fluttering  plumes,  with  eye  of  pride, 
Sank  in  the  battle’s  thundering  tide; 

And  guardsmen,  bowmen,  hackbuteers, 

A moment,  when  they  saw  him  fall, 

Raised  high  to  heaven  their  weapons  all; 
And  with  fierce  eyes  and  maddening  cheers, 
And  hearts  that  wild  for  vengeance  burned, 
Amid  the  universal  din 
Dashed  through  the  pagan  Sarazin, 

Many  a rood  his  columns  in  — ■ 

But  never  a man  returned! 


xx. 

’Twas  then,  unhorsed,  as  ’mid  the  press 
I hacked  and  stabbed  in  sore  distress, 
East  as  the  storm-wind  in  the  dell, 

To  me  each  incident  befell ; — 

I saw  upon  the  red  field  nigh 
Upon  his  back  Sebastian  lie, 

With  bleeding  breast  and  glazing  eye, 
The  younger  page  beside  him  kneel, 
The  elder  o’er  his  body  bent  — 

One  sabre  stroke  and  down  he  went. 

I saw  him  his  wild  charger  wheel, 


BALLADS. 


49 


The  pagan  dog,  the  Moorish  foe, 

Whose  weapon  dealt  the  fatal  blow, 

And  raise  that  weapon  once  again 
To  cleave  the  younger  to  the  brain. 

Amid  the  hubbub  and  the  hum 
I felt  mine  hour  of  hours  was  come 
To  do  a brave  and  gallant  deed 
Was  worthy  of  my  father’s  breed. 

Behind  him  on  the  steed  I sprang 
In  one  wild  bound,  with  clattering  clang 
Of  corselet  ’gainst  his  Moorish  jack, 

And  plunged  this  long  blade  through  his  back ! 
Then,  with  our  Irish  slogan  yell, 

I hurled  him  headlong  from  the  selle, 

And  turned  the  horse,  careering  round 
Infuriate  on  the  blood-stained  ground, 

Up  to  the  spot  where  Blue-eye  knelt, 

And  seized  him  by  the  golden  belt ; 

Drew  him  unto  me  tenderly, 

And  grasped  the  rein  and  firmed  my  knee ; 
And  like  the  lightning  bolts  that  tear, 
Destructive  through  the  forest  bare, 

Riving  and  shattering  all  before, 

Out  through  the  Moorish  crowd  I tore, 

And  wounded,  faint,  but  unpursued, 

Soon  left  behind  that  field  of  blood. 


XXI. 

Dead,  ’neatli  the  pale  moon’s  midnight  ray, 
Our  good  steed  on  the  greensward  lay, 

The  white  foam  on  his  spent  flank  showing, 
The  red  blood  from  his  nostrils  flowing; 
And,  spattered  with  the  crimson  tide, 

The  rescued  page  lay  low  beside, 
Motionless,  without  sigh  or  groan, 

Like  a young  tree  by  winds  o’erthrown. 

XXII. 

I looked  around  : the  moonbeams  lit 
A gorge  through  crags  of  granite  split, 
Whose  threatening  sides  above  us  towered, 
With  cedars  and  wild  palms  embowered, 

4 


50 


BALLADS. 


And  feathery  ferns  that  waved  aloft 
In  the  light  air  their  plumage  soft, 

And  wild  vines  hung  from  tree  to  tree 
Down  the  rude  rock  sides  stark  and  tall, 
Like  shreds  of  ancient  tapestry 
Upon  some  old  cathedral  wall. 

Above  us,  a long  band  of  light, 

The  torrent  cleared  a dizzy  height 
With  a wild  bound,  and  broke  below 
On  the  black  rocks  in  feathery  snow ; 

Then  gathering  in  its  strength  again, 
Dashed  by  us  down  the  echoing  glen. 

No  other  sound,  save  when  the  fox 
Barked  shrilly  from  the  upland  rocks, 
Broke  on  that  ghostly  solitude 
Of  intermingled  rock  and  wood. 

XXIII. 

With  sinking  heart,  that  hope  denied, 

I knelt  me  down  the  page  beside ; 

The  helmet  bright  with  gold  o’erchased, 
And  glitering  corselet  I unbraced, 

Parted  the  silken  vest  — when,  lo  ! 

Two  swelling  breasts,  like  ivory 
From  wild  Siberian  wastes  of  snow, 

The  page’s  sex  revealed  to  me ! 

As  one  who  on  a desert  hill, 

When  all  before  the  storm  is  still, 

Walks  musing  on,  till  swift  and  bright 
A keen  flash  of  electric  light 
Out  from  the  black  and  sulphurous  skies 
Flickers  before  his  wildered  eyes ; 

Sudden  he  stops  : his  startled  ear 
The  pulses  of  his  heart  can  hear, 

That  louder  still,  and  yet  more  loud, 
Throbs  at  each  thunder  from  the  cloud,  — 
So  I,  before  that  beauteous  maid, 

Stood  startled,  troubled,  half  afraid ; 

So  through  me,  like  a flood  of  flame, 

The  hot  blood  bounding  went  and  came. 
But  as  the  storm  which  all  night  long 
Pages  the  rattling  Peeks  among, 

Calms  gently  down  when  morning  breaks 
Upon  Killarney’s  magic  lakes, 


CHESTNUT  HILL,  MASS, 

BALLADS.  51 

So  my  wild  raptures  suddenly 
Calmed  as  she  oped  her  eyes  on  me. 

XXIV. 

And  as  she  looked,  a blush  there  came 
Upon  her  cheeks,  of  maiden  shame, 

And  in  her  eyes  a lovely  light, 

Half  confidence  and  half  affright, 

That  pierced  my  heart  with  love’s  sweet  pain, 

And  made  its  pulses  throb  again ; 

Tor  what  blest  saint  could  aught  control 
The  feelings  of  his  burning  soul  — 

What  heart  of  man  could  keep  him  wise 
’Neath  the  bright  glamour  of  her  eyes  ? 

Comrades  ! ’twas  not  in  mine  to  brook 
That  glance  and  sweet  appealing  look ; 

With  love  and  generous  ardor  stirred, 

Out  from  its  sheath  I plucked  my  sword, 

And  swore  upon  its  shining  cross, 

Through  weal  or  woe,  through  gain  or  loss, 

To  shield  her  with  my  heart’s  best  blood, 

Whate’er  befell  by  field  or  flood. 

xxv. 

What  answer  to  my  vows  I got, 

’Tis  past  and  gone,  and  matters  not; 

But  next  bright  morning  found  us  twain 
Upon  the  rough  shore  of  the  main, 

And  nigh  a red-sailed  Moorish  boat 
Upon  the  green  waves  half  afloat. 

Its  master,  a stout  Moor,  when  he 
Looked  on  our  Christian  panoply, 

Sprang  from  the  boat  with  brandished  oar 
To  slay  me  on  his  cursed  shore; 

Deftly  I warded  off  his  blow, 

And  with  my  good  sword  laid  him  low, 

And  left  the  pagan  dog  to  lie 
And  rot  beneath  his  burning  sky. 

Famished  with  hunger’s  pangs,  we  ate 
Of  his  good  scrip  of  sun-dried  date ; 

And  pushed  his  light  boat  from  the  strand, 

And  set  its  red  sail  to  the  wind, 

And  steering  for  the  northern  land 
Left  Barbary’s  fatal  shore  behind. 


52 


BALLADS. 


XXVI. 

’Twere  vain  to  tell  the  misery 

Of  hunger,  thirst,  and  sun-wrouglit  pain 
We  bore  upon  the  lonely  sea, 

Until,  upon  the  shore  of  Spain, 

We  breathed  the  blessed  mountain  breeze 
By  the  great  Bock  of  Hercules. 

And  vain  the  panorama  bright 
Of  lovely  Spanish  vale  and  height ; 

Of  forests  waving  in  the  breeze, 

And  castles  towering  o’er  the  trees ; 

Of  towns,  and  plains,  and  shimmering  rills, 
Dancing  in  music  down  the  hills,  — 

We  saw  ’neatli  shade,  or  sheen  of  sun, 

As  northward  still  we  journeyed  on. 


XXVII. 

Enough,  that,  hand  in  hand,  we  stood 
Within  a Lusitanian  wood, 

Husband  and  wife  one  eve,  before 
A mighty  castle,  grim  and  hoar, 

That  reared  its  gray  and  stately  head 
To  the  blue  skies  all  turreted. 

She  looked  into  mine  eyes  a look 
That  through  my  soul  like  lightning  strook, 
And  said,  “Brave  husband,  comrade  dear, 
Our  journey’s  happy  end  is  here  ! 

Eor  yonder  ancient  castle-hold, 

These  hills  and  vales,  this  blooming  wold, 
All  once  were  his,  my  brother  true, 

Whom  the  dark  Moor  relentless  slew, 

And  I,  the  last  branch  of  our  line, 

Take  thee  for  lord,  and  make  them  thine ! 
Of  lineage  high  in  wealth  and  fame, 

Of  old  Mendora’s  line  we  came ; 

Twin  children,  nurtured  at  one  breast, 

We  grew  in  love  ; at  fate’s  behest 
I followed  him  across  the  sea 
Disguised  in  soldier’s  panoply, 

And  saw  the  pagan  cleave  his  crest 
And  leave  me  none  to  love  — but  thee.” 


BALLADS. 


53 


XXVIII. 

O,  sweet  and  sad  our  welcome  home 
To  old  Mendora’s  castled  dome  ! 

The  vassals  shouted  from  the  towers, 
The  maidens  garlanded  with  flowers 
The  glittering  halls,  — yet  I oould  trace 
Sad  recollection  oh  each  face, 

And,  ’mid  the  gay,  sweet  garlands,  find 
Beneath  the  blossoms  intertwined 
Some  branches  of  a darker  hue,  — 

The  cypress  and  the  mourning  yew, 

In  grief  for  him  whose  bones  lay  far 
On  the  fell  field  of  Alcazar. 


XXIX. 

Yet  ever,  as  each  morning  rose, 

Died  out  the  memory  of  our  woes, 

For  as  two  rose-buds  of  the  Spring, 

In  some  sweet  bower  where  linnets  sing, 
Beneath  the  sun  in  beauty’s  pride 
Open  their  glowing  petals  wide, 

So  our  young  hearts,  ’neath  Love’s  warm  ray. 
Brightened  and  bloomed,  and  passed  away 
A year  in  one  glad  rhapsody 
Of  bliss  I ne’er  again  shall  see. 

XXX. 

But  love,  and  all  the  hopes  it  fed, 

Its  joys  and  griefs  alike,  are  dead; 

She  died,  and  I knelt  by  her  tomb 
Short  space  in  misery  and  gloom ; 

For  word  came  o’er  that  Irishmen 
In  Ireland’s  cause  were  up  again. 

Then  I plucked  heart  of  grace  once  more, 
And  sought  old  Ireland’s  friendly  shore ; — 
And  here  I sit,  from  belt  to  brand, 

From  top  to  toe,  from  heart  to  hand, 

A soldier  of  my  native  land. 


54 


BALLADS. 


AFTER  THE  BATTLE. 


i. 

There  were  two  comrades,  stout  and  free, 
Within  the  Wood  of  Barnalee, 

Under  the  spreading  oaken  tree. 


ii. 

The  sun  poured  down  his  ruddy  light 
On  blooming  wold  and  purple  height;- 
The  wild  birds  sang,  the  streams  ran  bright. 

hi. 

There  they  sat  at  set  of  sun, 

Their  battle  fought,  their  victory  won : 

Sir  Hugh  le  Poer,  that  heart  of  fire, 

And  the  dark  Minstrel  with  his  lyre, 
Thinking,  thinking  mournfully, 

Under  the  spreading  oaken  tree, 

Of  their  gallant  comrades  twain 
Lying  on  the  battle  plain 
Stark  and  silent  with  the  slain. 


IV. 

Comrades  to  their  latest  breath, 

True  in  life  and  true  in  death, 

God  give  them  peace,  God  shield  them  well, 
Those  who  ’scaped  and  those  who  fell. 


BALLADS. 


55 


ROMANCE  OF  THE  GOLDEN  HELMET. 


i. 

One  glorious  Easter  even, 

Under  the  mountain  tree, 

A young  knight  sat  bereaven, 
A-gazing  up  and  down. 

O ! wearily  and  drearily 
Along  the  plains  looked  he, 

And  up  the  summits  brown. 

ii. 

The  birds  were  singing  sweetly 
From  the  wild  rowan  grove, 

The  dun  deer  gambolled  fleetly 
Beside  the  upland  rills  ; 

Yet  wearily  and  drearily 
He  thought  upon  his  love  — 

Young  Bride  of  the  castled  hills. 

hi. 

His  wolf-hound,  by  him  lying, 
Looked  up  into  his  face, 

As  though  he  read  the  flying 
Thoughts  of  his  master’s  brain. 
O,  wearily  and  drearily, 

Through  the  brain’s  little  space, 
Speeds  thought’s  black  train ! 


IV. 

“Around  my  love’s  hoar  dwelling”  — 
’Twas  thus  Sir  Brian  said  — - 
“ The  Norman  host  is  swelling, 

And  I a banished  man. 

O,  wearily  and  drearily 
My  mournful  days  have  sped 
Under  the'  outlaw’s  ban ! ” 


56 


BALLADS. 


V. 

Just  then  a white  fawn  darted 
Out  from  the  rowan  screen, 
And  up  the  wolf-hound  started, 
And  after  her  away ; 

And  suddenly,  O,  suddenly, 
Under  the  copses  green 
Soon  vanished  they ! 


VI. 

Beside  a cave’s  hoar  portal 
The  wolf-hound  lost  his  chase. 

O,  was  the  white  fawn  mortal, 

His  keen  eyes  thus  to  blind? 

Yet  eagerly,  O,  eagerly, 

He  still  pursued  the  trace 

Through  the  cave  like  the  wind ! 

VII. 

Now  came  the  sunset  gleaming 
O’er  haunted  crag  and  dell ; 

The  young  knight  stays  his  dreaming, 
And  looks  once  more  around, 

’Till  eagerly,  O,  eagerly, 

Across  the  silent  fell, 

Cometh  his  brave  wolf-hound ! — 

VIII. 

In  his  mouth  a helmet  golden 
He’d  found  in  th*  ancient. cave. 

With  a scroll  decayed  and  olden 
Fastened  beside  the  crest : — 

Who'll  hear  me , who'll  wear  me. 

Shall  have  an  army  hrave 
To  do  at  his  behest ! 

IX. 

Sir  Brian  placed  the  helmet 
His  plumed  cap  instead, 

And  scarce  had  cried,  “ O,  well  met, 
My  ’fenceless  head  and  thou ! ” 
When  suddenly,  O,  suddenly, 

He  heard  an  army’s  tread 
Over  the  mountain’s  brow  \ 


BALLADS. 


57 


X. 

And  quickly  filed  before  him 
A thousand  mounted  men. 

High  in  the  twilight  o’er  him 
Their  gilded  banners  sail, 

And  gallantly,  O,  gallantly, 

They  rode  in  that  wild  glen, 

All  in  their  glittering  mail ! 

XI. 

One  led  unto  Sir  Brian 
A mighty  milk-white  steed, 

And  he  has  mounted  high  on 
The  antique  saddle-tree ; 

And  eagerly,  O,  eagerly 
All  cried,  “ In  thy  great  need, 

O,  now  we’ll  follow  thee ! ” 

XII. 

Away  Sir  Brian  dashes 

With  those  weird  warriors  all; 

The  craggy  roadway  flashes 

Beneath  their  horse-hoofs’  bound, 
’Till  rushingly,  O,  rushingly, 

They  speed  nigh  his  true-love’s  wall, 
By  the  Norman  leaguered  round! 

XIII. 

Behind  Sir  Brian  kept  they, 

Their  proud  plumes  dancing  high ; 
With  brave  Sir  Brian  swept  they 
Upon  the  Norman  crew, 

And  fearfully,  0,  fearfully 
Bose  their  ancient  battle-cry, 

’Till  every  man  they  slew ! 

XIV. 

Ilis  love  came  forth  to  meet  him 
Beneath  the  midnight  star ; 

His  mountain  friends  to  greet  him, 
And  those  weird  warriors  all, 
Joyfully,  0,  joyfully, 

All  crossed  the  fortress  bar, 

And  feasted  in  the  hall ! 


58 


BALLADS. 


xv. 

’Till  morn’s  white  planet  lit  them, 
These  champions  could  not  wait ; 
The  milk-white  charger  with  them 
Towards  the  lone  hills  they  bore ; 
Gallantly,  O,  gallantly 
They  rode  from  the  castle  gate, 

And  ne’er  were  looked  on  more ! 

XVI. 

Long  in  that  ancient  castle, 

’Neath  the  gray  Cummeragli’s  head, 
Bright  over  feast  and  wassail 
That  golden  helmet  shone ; 

And  joyfully, *0,  joyfully 
These  lovers  twain  were  wed 
Ere  the  next  morn  was  gone ! * 


FAIR  GWENDOLINE  AND  HER  DOVE. 

i. 

“ Come  hither,  come  hither,  thou  snowy  dove, 
Spread  out  thy  white  wings  fast  and  free, 

And  fly  over  moorland,  and  hill,  and  grove, 

Till  thou  reach  the  castle  of  gay  Tralee. 

Sir  Gerald  bides  in  the  northern  tower, 

While  heather  is  purple  and  shamrock  green, 

Go,  bid  him  come  to  thy  lady’s  bower 

For  the  love  of  his  own  dear  Gwendoline. 


ii. 

“ Come  hither,  come  hither,  thou  lily-white  dove, 

Spread  out  thy  white  wings  fast  and  free ; 

When  thou’st  given  Sir  Gerald  my  troth  and  love,  ' 

In  the  northern  turret  of  gay  Tralee, 

* The  tradition  of  the  enchanted  warriors  is  not  confined  to  on6  part  of 
Ireland.  The  peasantry  of  the  Cummeragh  valleys  say  that  a troop  of 
those  ancient  and  spell-bound  warriors  may  frequently  be  seen  at  night 
performing  their  evolutions  on  the  wild  mountain  tracks,  and  in  the  rocky 
cooms  near  their  dwellings. 


BALLADS. 


59 


Then  speed  thy  flight  to  Dunkerron  gate, 

While  heather  is  purple  and  shamrock  green, 

And  tell  its  lord  of  thy  lady’s  hate, 

That  he’ll  ne’er  look  more  on  young  Gwendoline.” 

hi. 

Away,  away  went  the  faithless  dove, 

Away  over  castle,  and  mount,  and  tree, 

Till  he  lighted  Dunkerron’s  gate  above  — 

Not  the  northern  turret  of  gay  Tralee : 
u Sir  Donal,  my  lady  hath  lands  and  power, 

While  heather  is  purple  and  shamrock  green, 

And  she  bids  thee  come  to  her  far-off  bower 
For  the  love  of  thine  own  dear  Gwendoline.” 

IV. 

Away,  away  went  the  false,  false  dove, 

Nor  rested  by  castle,  or  mount,  or  tree, 

Till  he  lighted  a corbeil-stone  above, 

In  the  northern  turret  of  gay  Tralee : 

“ Sir  Gerald,  my  lady  hates  thee  sore, 

While  heather  is  purple  and  shamrock  green, 
While  the  streams  dance  down  the  hills,  no  more 
Shalt  thou  look  on  the  face  of  fair  Gwendoline.” 


v. 

“ Thou  best,  thou  best!  O,  faithless  dove! 

I’ll  take  my  good  steed  speedibe 
And  hie  to  the  bower  of  my  lady-love, 

And  ask  at  its  door  if  she’s  false  to  me : 

I’ll  ne’er  believe  but  her  heart  is  true 

While  heather  is  purple  and  shamrock  green.” 
And  never  a bridle-rein  he  drew 
Till  he  rode  to  the  bower  of  his  Gwendobne. 

VI. 

Dunkerron’s  lord  came  by  the  gate,  — 

A stout  and  a deadly  foe  was  he,  — 

And  with  lance  in  rest,  and  with  frown  of  hate, 

He  rode  at  Sir  Gerald  of  gay  Tralee ; 

Sir  Gerald  bent  o’er  his  saddle-bow, 

"While  heather  is  purple  and  shamrock  green, 
Strook  his  lance  through  the  heart  of  his  bravest  foe 
For  the  love  of  his  own  dear  Gwendoline. 


60 


BALLADS, 


VII. 

“Fair  Gwendoline,  thou’st  a faithless  dove, 

Yet  I know  thou  wert  ever  true  to  me ; 

’Twas  his  words  were  lies  and  thy  troth  to  prove 
I rode  o’er  the  mountains  from  gay  Tralee.” 
He’s  clasped  his  arms  round  that  lady  gay, 
While  heather  is  purple  and  shamrock  green, 
And  the  summer-tide  saw  their  wedding  day  — 
That  trusting  knight  and  fair  Gwendoline. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  MANNING  FORD. 

[This  battle  was  fought  in  the  winter  of  1C43,  by  the  troops  of  the  Kil- 
kenny Confederation,  under  Lord  Castlehaven,  against  one  of  the  armies 
of  Murrogh  O’Brien,  Earl  of  Incliiquin,  commanded  by  Sir  Charles  Va- 
vasour. The  two  armies  came  in  sight  of  each  other  in  the  morning,  and 
marched  side  by  side  during  the  greater  part  of  the  day,  each  looking  for 
an  advantageous  battle-ground.  At  length  they  reached  the  Ford  of  Man- 
ning, across  the  Luncheon,  near  Glanworth.  Here  Sir  Charles  Vavasour 
attempted  to  cross  the  river,  but  was  attacked  by  Lord  Castlehaven,  and  his 
army  cut  to  pieces,  .after  the  manner  told  in  the  ballad.  Sir  Charles  Vava- 
sour himself  was  taken  prisoner,  and  all  his  principal  officers  either  slain 
or  captured.  In  this  battle  all  the  standards,  save  one,  of  the  enemy,  fell 
into  the  hands  of  the  Irish  forces,  together  with  the  preys  of  cattle,  the 
baggage,  and  seven  or  eight  hundred  stand  of  arms.] 


I sharpened  my  sword  in  the  morning,  and  buckled  my  basnet 
and  jack; 

I clothed  my  steed  in  his  harness,  and  cheerily  sprung  on  his 
back ; 

I rode  over  mountain  and  moorland,  and  never  slacked  spur  by 
the  way, 

Till  I came  to  the  green  Pass  of  Ballar,  and  called  up  young 
Johnnie  Dunlea. 


ii. 

Then  down  through  that  deep  vale  we  clattered,  and  on  by  the 
hoarse-sounding  rill, 

Till  we  came  to  the  strong  House  of  Sloragh,  and  blew  up  our 
bugle  full  shrill ; 


BALLADS.  61 

Then  Diarmid,  the  Master  of  Sloragh,  rode  gallantly  out  with 
his  men, 

And  we  shouted,  “ Hurrah  for  the  battle ! ” as  onward  we  thun- 
dered again. 

iii. 

We  swept  like  the  wind  through  the  valley  — deep  quagmire  and 
trench  we  defied, 

And  we  knocked  at  the  strong  gate  of  Dangan,  where  Will  of 
the  Wood  kept  his  bride ; — 

How  he  pressed  her  sweet  lips  at  the  parting,  and  kissed  off  her 
tears,  o’er  and  o’er ! 

But,  alas ! they  flowed  faster  at  even,  for  her  bridegroom  came 
back  nevermore. 


IV. 

Through  the  bog  of  Glendoran  we  waded,  and  up  through  the 
sear  forest  crashed, 

Then  down  o’er  the  broad-spreading  highland,  a torrent  of  bright 
steel  we  dashed ; 

And  there  how  we  shouted  for  gladness,  as  the  glitter  of  spears 
we  descried 

Brom  the  army  of  bold  Castlehaven,  far  off  on  the  green  moun- 
tain side ! 


v. 

I rode  up  to  the  brave  Castlehaven,  and  asked  for  a place  in 
his  rank ; 

And  he  said,  “Keep  ye  shoulder  to  shoulder,  and  charge  ye  to- 
day from  our  flank ! ” 

And  we  marched  ’neath  his  banner  that  morning,  till  fast  by  Lis 
Luncheon  we  lay, 

Just  to  drink  a good  slainthe  to  Ireland,  and  look  to  our  arms 
for  the  fray. 


VI. 

’Twas  then,  as  we  gazed  down  the  moorland,  a horseman  came 
wild  spurring  in, 

And  he  stinted  his  course  not  for  thicket,  for  deep  bog,  or  crag- 
strewn  ravine, 

Till  his  charger  fell  dead  by  our  standard,  that  waved  in  the 
bright  morning  glow ; 

Then  up  to  our  chieftain  he  tottered,  and  told  him  his  dark  tale 
of  woe! 


62 


BALLADS. 


VII. 

“ IIo.!  Baron  of  broad  Castlehaven ! last  night,  in  the  Tower 
of  Cloghlea, 

The  foe  battered  down  our  defences  — save  me,  every  man  did 
they  slay ; * 

And  they  brought  forth  their  prisoners  this  morning,  — young 
maiden,  and  matron,  and  child,  — 

And  led  them,  for  bloodshed  still  burning,  away  through  the 
brown  forest  wild. 

VIII. 

“And  there,  by  the  Bridge  of  Glenullin,  they  murdered  these 
poor  prisoners  all, 

And  the  demons  they  laughed  as  they  slew  them  — ah ! well  did 
they  free  them  from  thrall  — 

And  now  look  ye  sharp  to  the  southward;  on  Vavasour  comes 
with  his  horde ; 

Then  give  him  the  murderer’s  guerdon,  and  pay  him  with  bullet 
and  sword ! ” 

IX. 

We  looked  to  the  southward,  and  saw  them  with  many  a creact 
moving  on, 

With  the  spoil  of  two  counties  behind  them,  by  murder  and 
treachery  won ; 

With  a waving  and  flaunting  of  banners,  and  bright-flashing 
arms  did  they  come, 

With  the  clear,  shrilly  clamor  of  trumpets,  and  the  loud  rolling 
tuck  of  the  drum. 


x. 

We  answered  their  challenge  as  proudly,  and  threw  out  our 
skirmishers  bold, 

Who  pillaged  their  rear  of  the  cattle,  and  thinned  their  broad 
van  from  the  wold ; 

And  thus  the  two  armies  went  onward,  each  watching  its  neigh- 
bor full  keen, 

Till  we  came  to  the  rough  slopes  of  Manning,  with  the  bright 
Funcheon  rolling  between. 


XI. 

Then  out  spurred  our  brave  Castlehaven,  his  sword  flashing 
bright  in  his  hand, 

And  he  cried,  “Now,  my  children,  we’ve  caught  them,  the  foes 
of  your  dear  native  land ! 


BALLADS. 


63 


Brave  horsemen,  bear  down  on  their  rearguard  — brave  footmen, 
strike  hard  on  their  flanks, 

Till  we  give  them  a bed  ’neath  the  Buncheon,  or  a grave  .cold 
and  red  by  its  banks.” 

XII. 

O,  then  came  the  clanking  of  harness,  and  the  roar  of  the  onset 
full  soon, 

And  the  neighing  and  champing  of  chargers,  and  the  crash  of 
the  loud  musquetoon, 

And  the  fierce  rolling  thunder  of  cannon,  and  the  rattling  of 
lances  and  swords, 

And  the  gloom  and  the  glitter  of  battle,  as  we  fell  horse  and  foot 
on  their  hordes  I 


XIII. 

As  the  frost-loosened  crags  thunder  downward,  through  the  wild- 
woods  of  steep  Gaultymore, 

We  rushed  on  their  thick-serried  horsemen,  and  swept  them 
adown  to  the  shore ; 

As  the  gray  wolves  rush  out  from  the  forest,  one  flood  of  white 
fangs  on  their  prey, 

Our  fierce  kerne  sprang  on  their  footmen,  with  blades  ready 
pointed  to  slay. 


XIV. 

And  there  ’twas  all  shouting  and  swearing,  and  the  clanging  of 
hard  stroke  on  stroke, 

And  the  flourish  of  skeins  o’er  the  vanquished,  and  the  glittering 
of  pikes  through  the  smoke,  — 

Till  the  ford  was  half  crossed  by  their  footmen,  and  the  river 
all  red  with 'their  gore,  — 

Till  the  horse  through  their  thick  ranks  retreated,  and  we  at 
their  backs  striking  sore. 


xv. 

There’s  a flat  on  the  far  side  of  Manning,  with  gray  cliffs  and 
wood  every  side ; 

’Tis  there,  in  the  blood  of  the  foemen,  our  pikes  and  our  sabres 
we  dyed ; 

’Tis  there  you’d  have  heard  the  loud  clangor,  as  the  steel  went 
through  corselet  and  breast, 

As  we  slew  them,  and  slew  till  the  sunset  glared  red  o’er  the 
hills  of  the  west. 


64 


BALLADS. 


XYI. 

Fierce  Vavasour  rode  by  his  standard,  and  stoutly  he  stood  to 
the  charge, 

But  we  took  him,  and  all  his  bold  leaders,  full  soon  by  that  red 
river’s  marge ; 

And  the  pillage  he  swept  from  each  hamlet,  and  the  gold  that  he 
robbed  from  each  town, 

By  the  ne’er-failing  ordeal  of  battle,  were  ours  ere  the  red  sun 
went  down. 

XVII. 

And  the  remnant  that  ’scaped  from  the  slaughter,  we  chased 
over  valley  and  wood, 

Till  each  rough  path  was  strewn  with  their  corses,  each  ford 
running  red  with  their  blood ; 

One  flag-bearer  ’scaped  to  Kilmallock,  with  banner  all  shattered 
and  torn  — 

Sad  news  to  Black  Murrogh,  the  Burner,  the  sight  of  that 
horseman  forlorn ! 

XVIII. 

And  soon  o’er  the  red  Ford  of  Manning  we  kindled  our  camp- 
fires full  bright, 

And  fast  by  the  heaps  of  the  slaughtered,  0,  wildly  we  revelled 
that  night ! 

And  we  drank  a good  slainthe  to  Ireland,  and  one  to  our  gen- 
eral brave, 

Who  led  us  to  triumph  and  glory  that  day  by  the  Funcheon’s 
wild  wave ! 


YOUNG  DE  RUPE. 


i. 

A stricken  plain  is  good  to  see 

When  victory  crowns  the  patriot’s  sword, 
And  the  gory  field  seemed  fair  to  me 
W on  by  our  arms  at  Manning  Ford. 

ii. 

’Tis  there  we  smote  them  hip  and  thigh, 

Till  Funcheon’s  stream  ran  red  with  gore,  — 
Till  its  marge  was  matted  far  and  nigh 
With  the  slaughtered  bands  of  Vavasour. 


BALLADS. 


65 


III. 

As  I stooped  down  my  thirst  to  slake, 

A gallant  voice  rang  in  mine  ears  : — 

“Now  who  this  joyful  news  will  take 
Of  victory  to  my  goodly  peers  ? ” 

IV. 

I turned  me  round  and  right  about 
By  Funcheon’s  swift  and  bloody  tide, 

And  there  I saw  our  leader  stont, 

Bold  Castlehaven,  at  my  side. 

v. 

“Now  who  this  joyful  news  will  take 
To  far  Kilkenny’s  ancient  town, 

And  win  a good  knight’s  spurs,  and  make 
His  name  a name  of  high  renown  ? ” * 

VI. 

There  fell  a silence  still  as  death 
On  his  bearded  captains  all  around, 

And  each  one  cast,  with  bated  breath, 

His  stern  eyes  on  the  bloody  ground. 

VII. 

For  the  rivers  were  deep  and  the  mountains  high, 
And  the  Burner’s  men  held  pass  and  ford, 

And  the  wolves  were  out,  and  the  night  was  nigh, 
So  each  man  answered  never  a word. 

VIII. 

With  that,  up  spoke  a stripling  brave 
Where  by  a captured  flag  he  stood 
Wounded,  and  grimed  with  dust — his  glaive 
Still  dripping  with  the  bearer’s  blood. 

IX. 

His  form  was  like  Bengara’s  pine, 

His  youthful  face  was  fair  to  see, 

And  his  eyes  were  like  the  osprey’s  eyne 
On  the  barren  crags  of  Barnalee. 
x. 

“ The  foe  may  lurk  in  bush  and  brake, 

The  wolves  may  howl,  the  night  come  down, 
Yet  I — He  Rupe  — the  news  will  take 
To  far  Kilkenny’s  famous  town ; — 


66 


BALLADS. 


XI. 

“ And  not  for  blame,  nor  praise,  nor  fame, 

Nor  smile  of  lady  sweet  and  bland, 

Nor  power,  nor  pomp,  nor  knighthood’s  name, — 
But  air  for  love  of  native  land ! ” 

XII. 

Cheerily  smiled  that  warlike  lord, 

His  hand  slapped  on  his  mailed  knee,  — 

“ Should  thou  return,  by  my  knightly  word, 
Through  many  a fray  thou’lt  ride  with  me ! 

XIII. 

“But  speed  thee  now,  as  the  wild  wind  speeds, 
And  take  this  flag  thou’st  nobly  won ; 

’Twill  mind  them  of  thy  peerless  deeds, 

And  tell  them  best  what  we  have  done.” 

XIV. 

He  took  that  rent  and  gory  flag, 

Then  vaulted  to  his  saddle-tree ; 

On  his  steaming  steed,  by  height  and  crag, 

Like  the  lightning  bolt  away  went  he. 

xv. 

He  had  scarce  ridden  three  leagues  or  so, 

When  the  night  came  down  full  sullen  and  black, 

And  he  passed  the  forest  of  Kossaroe, 

Its  wild  wolves  howling  on  his  track. 

xvi. 

They  scented  his  fresh  blood  on  the  wind, 

And  they  whisked  their  tails  in  savage  glee ; 

Though  they  howled  and  whined,  far,  far  behind 
He  left  them  all  full  speedilie. 

XVII. 

O’er  many  a hill  and  moorland  wide 
On  his  weary  way  he  toiled  full  sore, 

Till  lie  saw  the  deep  Suir’s  swollen  tide 
Sweep  thundering  down  by  Kuscoe’s  shore. 

XVIII. 

The  foam  flakes  leapt  o’er  helmet  bright, 

The  hungry  torrent  hissed  and  roared, 

And  the  lightning’s  light  lit  up  the  night 
One  moment  as  he  crossed  the  ford. 


BALLADS. 


67 


XIX. 

“Now,  who  art  thou?  ” did  a horseman  say  — 
“What  news?  what  news,  thou  stripling  wan? 

For  the  de’il  a man  shall  go  this  Away 
Without  Lord  Murrogh  pass  him  on.” 

xx. 

“I’m  young  De  Rupe,  of  Ballar  dell; 

Sore  is  the  news  I bring  to  thee  ; ” — ■ 

And  he  dashed  right  up  at  that  sentinel, 

And  pierced  him  through  with  the  banner-tree  ! 

xxi. 

He  sprang  unto  his  foeman’s  selle, 

For  his  own  good  steed  dropped  groaning  down ; 

And  away  once  more  o’er  moor  and  fell, 

On  his  path  the  young  De  Rupe  is  bowne. 

XXII. 

Before  the  peers  for  Ireland’s  good, 

In  far  Kilkenny’s  town  next  day, 

Prelate  and  priest,  in  brotherhood, 

Were  chanting  Mass  in  the  Black  Abbaye. 

XXIII. 

They  heard  a murmur  in  the  street, 

And  anon  a cheer  that  shook  the  town ; 

Then  the  clatter  of  a charger’s  feet 
On  the  stony  way  came  ringing  down. 

XXIV. 

And  high  again  that  cheering  roar 
Through  the  bannered  aisles  like  thunder  ran, 

Till  the  ancient  abbey’s  sculptured  door 
Was  darkened  by  a horse  and  man. 

XXV. 

He  muttered  one  prayer  his  soul  to  save,  — 

That  courier  good,  that  wounded  Avight,  — 

Then  clattered  up  the  echoing  nave, 

And  stopped  before  the  altar  bright. 

XXVI. 

“ Christ  shrive  thy  soul,  thou  gory  youth ! ” 

Up  spake  the  Primate,  old  and  gray  — 

“ Tidings  of  joy  or  tale  of  ruth 

Bring’st  thou  to  tell  us  here  to-day  ? ” 


68 


BALLADS. 


XXVII. 

“ I bring  ye  news  from  Manning  Ford ; 

We’ve  smote  the  foeman  gallantlie ; 

This  flag  bold  Castlehaven’s  lord 
A token  good  hath  sent  by  me ! ” 

XXVIII. 

Fast  at  the  words  his  wounded  side 

The  life-blood  spirted  o’er  hip  and  selle; 

As  a tree  in  its  pride,  ’neath  the  wild  winds  tide, 
With  a crash  on  the  stony  floor  he  fell ! 

XXIX. 

They  laid  his  corse  by  the  altar  bright, 

They  chanted  the  Mass  for  the  brave  youth’s  weal, 

And  they  prayed  to  God,  in  his  mercy  and  might, 

For  hearts  as  that  dead  heart  true  and  leal. 

XXX. 

Christ  save  his  soul,  that  gallant  youth,  — 

When  by  the  Judgment  Seat  we  stand,  — 

Who  rode  that  ride  of  death  and  ruth, 

And  all  for  love  of  native  land ! 


THE  GREEN  DOVE  AND  THE  RAVEN. 


Theue  was  a dove  with  wings  of  green, 
Glistening  o’er  so  radiantly, 

With  head  of  blue  and  golden  sheen, 
All  sad  and  wearily 
Sitting  two  red  blooms  between 
On  lovely  Barna’s  wild-wood  tree. 

ii. 

There  was  a letter  ’neath  its  wing, 
Written  by  a fair  ladye, 

Safely  bound  with  silken  string 
So  light  and  daintily, 

And  in  that  letter  was  a ring, 

On  lovely  Barna’s  wild-wood  tree. 


BALLADS. 


69 


hi. 

There  was  a raven,  black  and  drear, 

Stained  with  blood  all  loathsomely, 

Perched  upon  the  branches  near, 

Croaking  mournfully, 

And  he  said,  “ O,  dove,  what  bring’st  thou  here 
To  lovely  Barna’s  wild- wood  tree  ? ” 


iv. 

“Pm  coming  from  a ladye  gay, 

To  the  young  heir  of  sweet  Glenore, 

His  ring  returned,  it  is  to  say 
She’ll  never  love  him  more,  — 

Alas  the  hour  ! alas  the  day  ! — 

By  murmuring  Funcheon’s  fairy  shore.’’ 

v. 

“ O,  dove,  outspread  thy  wings  of  green; 

I’ll  guide  thee  many  a wild-wood  o’er ; 
I’ll  bring  thee  where  I last  have  seen 
The  young  heir  of  Glenore, 

Beneath  the  forest’s  sunless  screen, 

By  murmuring  Funcheon’s  fairy  shore.” 


VI. 

O’er  many  a long  mile  did  they  flee, 

The  dove,  the  raven  stained  with  gore, 
And  found  beneath  the  Murderer’s  tree 
The  young  heir  of  Glenore,  — 

A bloody,  ghastly  corpse  was  he, 

By  murmuring  Funcheon’s  fairy  shore. 

VII. 

“ Go  back,  go  back,  thou  weary  dove,  — 
To  the  cruel  maid  tell  o’er  and  o’er, 

He’s  Death’s  and  mine,  her  hate  or  love 
Can  never  reach  him  more  — 

To  his  ice-cold  heart  in  Molagga’s  grove, 
By  murmuring  Funcheon’s  fairy  shore.” 


70 


BALLADS. 


THE  BLACKSMITH  OF  LIMERICK. 


i. 

He  grasped  his  ponderous  hammer,  he  could  not  stand  it  more, 

To  hear  the  bombshells  bursting,  and  thundering  battle’s  roar ; 

He  said,  “The  breach  they’re  mounting,  the  Dutchman’s  mur- 
dering crew  — 

I’ll  try  my  hammer  on  their  heads,  and  see  what  that  can  do ! 

ii. 

“ Now,  swarthy  Ned  and  Moran,  make  up  that  iron  well, 

’Tis  Sarsfield’s  horse  that  wants  the  shoes,  so  mind  not  shot  or 
shell.” 

“Ah,  sure,”  cried  both,  “the  horse  can  wait  — for  Sarsfield’s  on 
the  wall, 

And  where  you  go,  we’ll  follow,  with  you  to  stand  or  fall ! ” 

hi. 


The  blacksmith  raised  his  hammer,  and  rushed  into  the  street, 
llis  ’prentice  boys  behind  him,  the  ruthless  foe  to  meet  — 

High  on  the  breach  of  Limerick,  with  dauntless  hearts  they  stood, 
Where  bombshells  burst,  and  shot  fell  thick,  and  redly  ran  the 


“Now  look  you,  brown-haired  Moran,  and  mark  you,  swarthy 
Ned, 

This  day  we’ll  prove  the  thickness  of  many  a Dutchman’s  head ! 
Hurrah  ! upon  their  bloody  path  they’re  mounting  gallantly ; 

And  now  the  first  that  tops  the  breach,  leave  him  to  this  and  me ! ” 


v. 

The  first  that  gained  the  rampart,  he  was  a captain  brave,  — 

A captain  of  the  grenadiers,  with  blood-stained  dirk  and  glaive ; 
He  pointed,  and  he  parried,  but  it  was  all  in  vain, 

For  fast  through  skull  and  helmet  the  hammer  found  his  brain ! 

VI. 

The  next  that  topped  the  rampart,  he  was  a colonel  bold, 

Bright,  through  the  dust  of  battle,  his  helmet  flashed  with  gold. 
“ Gold  is  no  match  for  iron,”  the  doughty  blacksmith  said, 

As  with  that  ponderous  hammer  he  cracked  his  foeman’s  head. 


BALLADS. 


71 


VII. 

“Hurrah  for  gallant  Limerick!  ” black  Ned  and  Moran  cried, 

As  on  the  Dutchmen’s  leaden  heads  their  hammers  well  they  plied. 

A bombshell  burst  between  them  — one  fell  without  a groan, 

One  leaped  into  the  lurid  air,  and  down  the  breach  was  thrown. 

VIII. 

“Brave  smith!  brave  smith!”  cried  Sarsfield,  “beware  the 
treacherous  mine ! 

Brave  smith ! brave  smith ! fall  backward,  or  surely  death  is 
thine ! ” 

The  smith  sprang  up  the  rampart,  and  leaped  the  blood-stained 
wall, 

As  high  into  the  shuddering  air  went  foemen,  breach,  and  all ! 


IX. 

Up,  like  a red  volcano,  they  thundered  wild  and  high,  — 

Spear,  gun,  and  shattered  standard,  and  foemen  through  the  sky ; 
And  dark  and  bloody  was  the  shower  that  round  the  blacksmith 
fell ; — 

He  thought  upon  his  ’prentice  boys  — they  were  avenged  well. 


x. 

On  foemen  and  defenders  a silence  gathered  down ; 

’Twas  broken  by  a triumph- shout  that  shook  the  ancient  town, 
As  out  its  heroes  sallied,  and  bravely  charged  and  slew, 

And  taught  King  William  and  his  men  what  Irish  hearts  could  do  ! 

XI. 

Down  rushed  the  swarthy  blacksmith  unto  the  river  side ; 

He  hammered  on  the  foe’s  pontoon  to  sink  it  in  the  tide ; 

The  timber  it  was  tough  and  strong,  it  took  no  crack  or  strain ; 
“Mavrone!  ’twon’t  break,”  the  blacksmith  roared;  “I’ll  try 
their  heads  again ! ” 


XII. 

He  rushed  upon  the  flying  ranks  — his  hammer  ne’er  was  slack, 
For  in  through  blood  and  bone  it  crashed,  through  helmet  and 
through  jack ; — 

He’s  ta’en  a Holland  captain,  beside  the  red  pontoon, 

And  “Wait  you  here,”  he  boldly  cries ; “ I’ll  send  you  back  full 
soon ! 


72 


BALLADS. 


XIII. 

“ Dost  see  this  gory  hammer?  It  cracked  some  skulls  to-day, 
And  yours  ’twill  crack  if  you  don’t  stand  and  list  to  what  I say  : — 
Here  ! take  it  to  your  cursed  king,  and  tell  him  softly  too, 
’Twould  be  acquainted  with  his  skull,  if  he  were  here,  not  you ! ” 

XIV. 

The  blacksmith  sought  his  smithy,  and  blew  his  bellows  strong ; 
He  shod  the  steed  of  Sarsfield,  but  o’er  it  sang  no  song. 

“ Ochone ! my  boys  are  dead,”  he  cried;  “ their  loss  I’ll  long 
deplore, 

But  comfort’s  in  my  heart  — their  graves  are  red  with  foreign 
gore ! ” 


LITTLE  THOMAS. 


i. 

’Neath  the  towers  of  old  Ardfinnan,  by  the  broad  ford’s  mossy 
stone, 

Down  sat  the  little  Thomas,  and  thus  he  made  his  moan  : — 

“ He  has  perished,  he  has  perished,  O,  my  chieftain  young  and 
brave, 

And  my  father,  too,  sleeps  with  him  underneath  the  rushing  wave  ! 

ii. 

“ Many  hearts  for  John  of  Desmond,*  through  the  Mumhan  val- 
leys pine, 

But  there  beats  not  one  amongst  them  half  so  desolate  as  mine,  — 

I,  the  little  page,  that  ever  by  my  dear  dead  lord  would  stay,  — 

I,  the  orphan  lone,  whose  father  hath  perished  here  to-day.” 

hi. 

Died  the  purple  of  the  sunset  from  the  blue  and  watery  sky, 

Kose  the  moon  in  clear  white  splendor  o’er  the  peaked  moun- 
tains high,  . 

But  the  little  page  sat  weeping  still  beside  the  ford’s  gray  stone, 

And  to  the  waters  sweeping,  thus  again  he  made  his  moan  : — 


* John,  the  young  Earl  of  Desmond,  was  drowned  at  the  Ford  of  Ard- 
finnan, on  his  return  from  a foray,  in  the  year  1399. 


BALLADS. 


73 


IV. 

tc  Woe  is  me!  that  they  have  perished;  here  my  home,  until  I 
find 

A master  like  the  Desmond,  a lord  so  good  and  kind”  — 

Looked  he  on  the  curling  water,  with  a sudden  throb  of  fear, 

For  the  Desmond  stood  before  him  in  the  moonlight  cold.and  clear ! 

v. 

On  his  limbs  the  battle  harness,  on  his  head  bright  helm  and 
plume, 

But  pale,  pale  were  his  features,  marked  that  morn  with  youth’s 
fair  bloom. 

“ Stay  thy  lorn  and  bitter  weeping,  O,  my  little  page,”  he  said, 

“ For  beneath  the  waters  sweeping  it  has  waked  the  early  dead! 

VI. 

“ The  good  sword  that  I gave  thee  on  our  last  victorious  day, 

It  shall  carve  thy  path  to  glory,  if  bright  honor  light  the  way. 
One  little  maid  there  dwelleth  by  the  green  shores  of  the  Lee, 
Only  she  shall  love  thee  fonder  than  my  constant  love  for  thee.” 

VII. 

Vanished  the  phantom  warrior  in  the  cold  light  of  the  moon, 
And  the  little  page  now  lieareth  but  the  Suir’s  loud-thundering 
tune ; 

Swift  he  rusheth  from  the  water,  swift  he  springeth  on  his  steed, 
And  through  the  moon-lit  forest  is  he  gone  with  lightning  speed. 

VIII. 

Ten  springs  more  have  decked  the  mountains,  and  it  is  a morn 
of  May; 

Knightly  spurs  the  page  now  weareth,  for  bright  honor  lit  his  way ; 
Before  the  bridal  altar,  with  a happy  heart  stands  he, 

And  his  bride  is  that  fair  maiden  by  the  green  shore  of  the  Lee ! 


THE  BATTLE  OF  BENBURB. 

A.D.  1646. 


I. 

O’eu  the  hills  of  Benburb  rose  the  red  beam  of  day, 
Gleaming  bright  from  our  foemen  in  battle  array ; 

But  as  brightly  again,  ’mid  the  green-woods  below, 
Shone  it  back  from  the  troops  of  our  brave  Owen  Roe. 


74 


BALLADS. 


II. 

Munroe  had  his  thousands  arrayed  at  his  back, 

With  their  puritan  mantles,  steel  morion,  and  jack, 
And  with  him  Ardes,  Blayney,  and  Conway  had  come, 
To  cut  Irish  throats  at  the  tuck  of  the  drum ! 

in. 

And  who  with  O’Neill  on  that  morn  drew  the  brand  ? 
Bold  hearts  as  ere  beat  by  the  Blackwater  strand : 

Sir  Phelim,  brave  chief,  with  the  bosom  of  fire, 
O’Donnell,  MacSweeny,  and  gallant  Maguire. 


IV. 

From  Derry’s  wild  woodlands,  from  Main’s  sounding  tide, 
From  Leitrim  and  Longford,  chiefs  came  to  our  side, 

And  stern  in  the  front,  with  his  sabre  in  hand, 

Stood  bold  Miles  the  Slasher,  the  pride  of  our  band.* 


v. 

The  foemen  at  morn  crossed  the  Blackwater’s  wave, 
Where  O’Ferral’s  five  hundred  a hot  welcome  gave ; 
But  soon  to  our  lines  came  his  band  pouring  in, 

Just  to  tell  us  the  news  of  Kinnard’s  wild  ravine. 


vi. 

Thus  we  kept  all  the  noon  the  lean  Scotsmen  at  play, 
Though  we  thought  of  their  forays  and  burned  for  the  fray ; 
For  our  chief  bade  us  wait  till  the  eve  had  begun, 

Then  rush  on  the  foe  with  our  backs  to  the  sun. 

VII. 

Then  down  to  our  front  with  his  chiefs  spurred  lie  fast,  — 

4 ‘ My  brave  men!  the  day  of  our  weakness  is  past; 

We  have  hearts  now  as  firm  as  our  sires  had  before, 

When  Bagnall  they  slew  by  the  Blackwater  shore. 

VIII. 

“Hark!  their  cannon  the  foe  for  our  columns  have  set; 
Strike  ! and  have  them  to  play  ’mid  their  own  columns  yet ; 
For  God  and  green  Erin  sure  and  stern  be  your  blow, 

As  ye  fight  in  my  path ! ” said  our  brave  Owen  Roe. 

* Maolmorrha,  or  Miles  O’Reilly,  called  Miles  the  Slasher , from  his 
great  strength  and  bravery  — a colonel  under  Owen  Roe. 


BALLADS. 


75 


IX. 

Hurrah  for  the  Red  Hand ! And  on,  to  a man, 

Horse  and  foot,  poured  we  down  like  a storm  on  their  van, 
Where  they  listed  a sermon  to  strengthen  their  zeal, 

And  a sermon  we  gave  them  — the  point  of  our  steel ! 

x. 

The  Slasher  looked  round  as  we  closed  in  the  fight,  — 

44  Ho  ! Sir  Phelim,”  he  called, 44  reap  your  harvest  ere  night ! ” 
Then  he  dashed  at  the  foe  with  his  long  heavy  blade, 

And,  mavrone,  what  a lane  through  their  columns  he  made ! 


XI. 

There  was  panic  before  us  and  panic  beside, 

As  their  horsemen  fled  back  in  a wild  broken  tide ; 

And  we  swept  them  along  by  the  Blackwater  shore 
Till  we  reddened  its  deep  tide  with  Sassenach  gore. 

XII. 

Few  foemen  escaped  on  that  well-stricken  day ; 

O’er  hillock  and  moorland  by  thousands  they  lay ; 

Fierce  Blaney  had  fallen  where  he  charged  by  the  fen  — 
’Twas  a comfort  he  slept  by  the  side  of  his  men  1 

XIII. 

A kern  by  the  river  held  something  on  high ; — 

44  Saint  Columb!  is  it  thus  that  the  Sassenachs  fly? 
Perchance  ’tis  my  coolun  which  they  clipped  long  ago,  — 
Mille  Gloria ! the  rough  wig  of  flying  Munroe ! ” 

XIV. 

And  we  took  from  the  foe,  ere  that  calm  twilight  fall, 
Their  horses  and  baggage,  and  banners  and  all ; 

Then  we  sat  by  our  watch-fires,  and  drank  in  the  glow 
Merry  health  to  our  leaders  and  brave  Owen  Roe ! 


ICILBRANNON. 


44  My  love,  braid  up  thy  golden  locks, 
And  don  thy  silken  slioon, 

We’ll  sit  upon  Kilbrannon’s  rocks, 
Where  shines  the  silvery  moon ; 


BALLADS. 


And  bring  thy  little  babe  with  tliee, 
For  his  dear  father’s  sake, 

The  lands  where  he’ll  be  lord  to  see, 
By  lone  Kilbrannon  lake.” 


ii. 

She’s  braided  up  her  golden  locks, 

She’s  donned  her  silken  shoon, 

And  they’re  away  to  Kilbrannon’s  rocks 
By  the  cold  light  of  the  moon  : 

Sir  Hubert  he  took  both  wife  and  child 
Upon  that  night  of  woe, 

And  hurled  them  over  the  rocks  so  wild, 

To  the  lake’s  blue  depths  below. 

hi. 

And  he  has  married  another  May, 

With  the  locks  of  ebonie, 

And  her  looks  are  sweet,  and  her  heart  is  gay, 
Yet  a woful  wight  is  he ; 

He  wakes  the  woods  with  his  bugle  horn, 

But  his  heart  is  heavy  and  sore ; 

And  he  ever  shuns  those  crags  forlorn 
By  lone  Kilbrannon  shore. 

IV. 

For  down  in  the  lake  the  dead  won’t  rest, 

That  vengeful  murdered  one ; 

With  her  little  babe  at  her  pulseless  breast, 
She  walks  the  waters  lone ; 

And  she  calls  at  night  her  murderer’s  name, 
And  will  call  forevermore, 

Till  the  huge  rocks  melt  in  doomsday  flame 
By  wild  Kilbrannon  shore. 


THE  BRIDGE  OF  GLANWILLAN. 


i. 

Though  the  linnets  sing  sweet  from  the  wildwood, 
Young  Kathleen  no  blithe  warbling  hears, 

And  the  warm  wind  that  plays  o’er  the  moorland 
Can  ne’er  dry  her  fast-falling  tears ; 


BALLADS. 


77 


And  though  gay  shine  the  sunlight  around  her, 
Still  her  fond  heart  is  sad  and  forlorn 
As  she  sits  by  the  ford  of  Glenara 
Awaiting  her  Dermot’s  return ; 

For  he’s  gone  to  the  fray  with  his  kindred, 

The  hard-riding  clansmen  of  Mourne. 

ii. 

“There  are  blood  spots  full  thick  on  thy  charger, 
There  are  blood  gouts  full  red  on  thy  mail,  — 
Have  ye  news,  have  ye  news  from  the  battle, 

Tired  horseman,  so  gory  and  pale  ? — 

O,  were  you  at  the  bridge  of  Glanwillan, 

And  saw  you  my  love  in  the  fray  ? ” 

“A  curse  on  that  bridge ! ” cried  the  foeman, 

“ There  the  Irish  have  conquered  to-day!  ” 
Then  he  dashed  through  the  bright  gleaming  river, 
And  away  o’er  the  moorland,  away ! 

hi. 

“ There’s  a smile  on  thy  face,  gallant  horseman, 
That  sweeps  like  the  wind  to  the  ford, 

On  thy  steed  steams  the  fresh  foam  of  battle, 

And  the  blood  stains  are  wet  on  thy  sword ; 

O,  were  you  at  the  bridge  of  Glanwillan  ? ” 

With  a wild  cry  of  anguish  she  prayed; 

Reining  up  with  a splash  by  the  water, 

His  hot,  steaming  charger  he  stayed,  — 

“Yes,  I’ve  news  from  the  bridge  of  Glanwillan, 
Brave  news  for  old  Ireland,  fair  maid.” 

iy. 

“ O,  stay  thee,  brave  horseman,  O,  stay  thee, 

And  tell  how  the  foeman  came  down ; 

Did  he  drive  the  good  preys  from  the  valleys, 

And  burn  every  hamlet  and  town  ? 

On  the  blood-streaming  bridge  of  Glanwillan 
Bode  my  Dermot  in  front  with  the  best?  ” 

On  his  brow  shone  a bright  smile  of  triumph, 

Like  the  sunlight  on  Houra’s  wild  crest, 

As  the  tale  of  that  morning’s  fierce  battle 
He  told  at  the  fair  maid’s  behest. 


v. 

But  first  he  glared  over  the  moorland, 

Where  the  heathbells  laugh  bright  in  the  sun, 


78 


BALLADS. 


And  shook  his  red  sword  at  the  foeman, 

That  wounded  and  weary  toiled  on ; 

’Twas  down  from  the  green  sloping  mountains 
We  first  saw  the  Saxons’  array, 

Hiding  forth  with  high  hearts  to  the  foray, 

On  the  broad,  smoking  plain  far  away. 

Dhar  Dhia!  like  the  corn  sheaves  of  autumn, 
By  the  bridge  lie  their  corses  to-day. 


VI. 

With  a jangling  of  scabbards  and  bridles 
Dashed  we  down  to  the  broad  Avon  more, 

Where  the  long,  narrow  bridge  of  Glanwillan 

Spanned  the  brown  tide  from  steep  shore  to  shore 
And  there  in  the  green,  blooming  forest 
We  halted  our  ranks  on  the  glade, 

And  each  rider  looked  close  to  his  pistols, 

And  loosened  his  long,  gleaming  blade ; 

Like  a bright  wall  of  steel  in  the  sunlight 
We  stood  for  the  foeman  arrayed. 

VII. 

You  could  hear  the  shrill  whine  of  the  otter 
As  he  quested  his  prey  by  the  shore ; 

You  could  hear  the  brown  trout  in  the  shallow 
Splash  up  from  the  wave  evermore ; 

So  still  we  awaited  their  coming, 

Though  each  heart  for  the  fight  throbbed  full  fain, 
Till  we  saw  through  the  greenwoods  advancing 
Their  line  like  a long  serpent  train, 

Till  the  psalm-singing  troopers  of  Cromwell 
Poured  down  o’er  the  causeway  amain. 

VIII. 

’Twas  then  like  the  storm-cloud  of  autumn 
That  rolls  over  Barna’s  wild  crest, 

When  its  thunder  clangs  hoarse  through  the  gorges, 
And  the  lightnings  leap  out  from  its  breast, 

With  our  loud  ringing  slogan  of  battle 
On  their  thick-serried  squadrons  we  bore, 

With  a flashing  of  helmets  and  sabres, 

And  a rattling  of  matchlocks  galore, 

Till  the  fresh  green  was  strewn  with  their  corses, 
And  the  causeway  was  slippery  with  gore. 


BALLADS. 


79 


IX. 

’Twas  then  you  would  see  what  the  clansmen 
In  the  cause  of  old  Ireland  could  do ; 

Long,  long  the  black  troopers  of  Cromwell 
That  brave  Irish  onset  will  rue. 

’Twas  then  you’d  be  scared  with  the  clashing 
Of  swords,  and  the  loud  cannon  booms  — 

With  the  rattling  of  pistols  and  flashing 

Of  fire  through  the  thick,  sulphury  glooms, ' 

With  the  shouts,  with  the  fluttering  of  banners, 

And  the  tossing  and  dancing  of  plumes. 

x. 

There  I rode  side  by  side  on  the  causeway, 

With  your  true-love  so  gallant  and  leal, 

As  he  charged  ’mongst  the  foremost  and  bravest, 

In  his  morion  and  bright  jack  of  steel. 

Splashed  the  blood  ’neath  his  horse-hoofs’  loud  clanging, 
As  he  swept  o’er  the  red  bridge’s  crown, 

And  many  a bold  Saxon  trooper 

’Neath  the  sweep  of  his  long  sword  went  down. 

This  day  for  thy  Dermot  of  Mourne 
Is  a bright  day  of  deathless  renown. 


XI. 

Then  weep  not,  fair  maid  by  Glenara ; 

In  triumph  thy  love  will  return, 

His  plume  waved  to-day  ’midst  the  foremost 
Of  the  hard-riding  clansmen  of  Mourne. 

His  name  shall  be  sacred  among  us, 

And  a watchword  in  foray  and  fray ! 

Then  that  fierce  clansman  glared  o’er  the  moorland, 
As  the  wolf  looketh  out  for  his  prey, 

And  dashed  through  the  ford  like  an  arrow 
On  the  track  of  his  foeman  away. 


THE  DYING  BALLAD  SINGER. 

i. 

O,  Thady  dear,  the  way  is  long, 

My  heart  and  feet  are  sore  and  weary, 


80 


BALLADS. 


I’ll  never  sing  another  song 

In  tented  Fair  or  Patron  cheery ; 

But  since  the  day  I met  with  you, 

I never  envied  lord  or  lady ; 

No  care,  nor  woe,  nor  joy  I knew 

That  was  not  shared  by  Kovin’  Thady. 


ii. 

It  seems  that  now  but  days  have  flown 

Since  first  you  bade  to  me  “ Good  morrow,” 

Though  many  a year  is  past  and  gone,  — 

Ah  ! many  a year  of  want  and  sorrow. 

It  was  a sunny  morn  in  June, 

The  winds  and  waves  were  sweetly  playing, 

And  you  struck  up  your  favorite  tune, 

“ The  piper  in  the  meadow  straying.” 

hi. 

Since  th’  hour  I ran  from  home  away, 

O,  many  a pang  my  heart  has  riven ! 

The  worst  of  all  was  that  Fair  day, 

I saw  my  brother  at  Knockevan ; 

’Twas  at  the  dance  — now,  pause  and  mind, 
AVhat  care,  with  sorrow,  shame,  and  sin,  does, 

The  feet  were  going  like  the  wind, 

For  they  were  dancing  “ Smash  the  windows  ; 5 

IV. 

He  saw  me,  but  he  took  no  note,  — 

He  knew  me  not,  so  changed  and  worn ; 

The  song  I sung  swelled  in  my  throat  — 

’Twas  worse  than  all  that  I had  borne. 

I stopped,  I gazed  upon  them  there, 

I thought  of  happy  hopes  departed, 

Then  turned  and  tottered  through  the  Fair, 

And  left  the  place  all  broken-hearted. 


v. 

Now  wrap  me  in  my  old  gray  cloak, 

And  lay  me  by  this  path-side  fountain ; 

I think  on  those  whose  hearts  I broke, 

Far,  far  away  by  Barna’s  mountain ; 

Long  calm  they  lie  where  Barna’s  stream 
Around  the  church-yard  wall  is  flowing,  — 


BALLADS. 


O,  on  their  deatli-bed  did  they  dream 
Of  her  that’s  now  so  quickly  going? 

VI. 

I fear  their  bones  in  earth  would  stir 

With  grief,  were  their  cold  earth  laid  o’er  me, 
Yet  still  I long  to  lie  near  her, 

The  mother  dear,  that  nursed  and  bore  me. 

I ask  it  with  my  latest  breath, 

You  won’t  refuse  your  Maureen  Grady  — 

O,  take  me,  lay  me  near  in  death, 

Near  those  I kilt,  my  Rovin’  Thady, 


ROMANCE  OF  THE  BLACK  ROBBER* 


i. 

By  a Mumhan  mountain  airy  and  stern, 
A well  lies  circled  by  rock  and  fern, 
And  fiercely  over  a precipice  near 
Rushetli  a waterfall,  brown  and  clear. 


ii. 

In  a hollow  rent  by  that  bright  well’s  foam  < 

A mighty  robber  once  made  his  home,  — 

A man  he  was  full  sullen  and  dark 
As  ever  brooded  on  murder  stark,  — 

hi. 

A mighty  man  of  a fearful  name, 

Who  took  their  treasures  from  all  who  came, 
Who  hated  mankind,  who  murdered  for  greed, 
With  an  iron  heart  for  each  bloody  deed. 

IV. 

As  he  sat  by  the  torrent  ford  one  day, 

A weird-like  beldame  came  down  the  way : 
Red  was  her  mantle,  and  rich  and  fine, 

But  toil  and  travel  had  dimmed  its  shine. 

* An  incident  in  an  old  Fenian  romance. 

6 


82 


BALLADS. 


Y. 

A war-axe  in  his  red  hand  he  took, 

And  lie  killed  the  beldame  beside  the  brook, 

And  when  on  the  greensward  in  death  she  rolled, 

In  her  arms,  lo ! a babe,  clad  in  pearls  and  gold. 

VI. 

He  buried  the  beldame  beside  the  wave, 

And  he  took  the  child  to  his  mountain  cave, 

And  the  first  jewel  his  red  hand  met, 

A Fern  and  a Hound  on  its  gem  were  set. 

VII. 

Yet  darkly  he  raised  his  hand  to  kill, 

But  his  fierce  heart  smote  him  such  blood  to  spill. 

O,  the  rage  for  murder  was  there  delayed 
By  the  innocent  smile  of  that  infant  maid ! 

VIII. 

He  made  it  a bed  of  the  fern  leaves  green, 

And  he  nursed  it  well  from  that  evening  sheen, 

And  day  by  day,  as  the  sweet  child  grew, 

The  heart  of  the  Bobber  grew  softer  too. 

IX. 

Ten  long  years  were  past  and  gone, 

And  the  Bobber  sat  by  the  ford’s  gray  stone, 

And  there  on  the  eve  of  a spring-tide  day, 

A lordly  pageant  came  down  the  way. 

x. 

Before  them  a banner  of  green  and  gold, 

With  a Fern  and  a Hound  on  its  glittering  fold, 
Behind  it  a prince  with  a sad,  pale  face,  — 

A mighty  prince  of  a mighty  race. 

XI. 

The  Bobber  looked  on  the  Fern  and  Hound, 

Then  sprang  toward  the  Prince  with  an  eager  bound, 
And  “ Why  art  thou  sad,  O King?  ” said  he, 

In  the  midst  of  that  lordly  companie. 

XII. 

His  kindly  purpose  they  all  mistook, 

For,  though  wan  and  worn,  yet  fierce  his  look; 


BALLADS. 


83 


And  sudden  a noble  drew  out  his  glaive, 

And  cleft  his  skull  on  the  beldame’s  grave. 

XIII. 

“ Sad,”  said  the  pale  Prince,  “ my  fate  has  been. 
Since  the  dark  enchanters  have  ta’en  my  queen, 
Since  they  bore  my  child  from  the  nurse’s  hand, 
And  keep  her  alway  in  th’  enchanted  land.” 

XIV. 

The  dying  Robber  half  rose  by  the  wave, 

“ O,  enter,”  he  cried,  “ yon  lonely  cave.” 

They  entered  — the  pale  Prince  found  his  child, 
And  all  was  joy  in  that  mountain  wild. 


LADY  MARION. 

“ At  the  first  blink  of  the  morning  light,  they  found  Lady  Marion,  lying 
cold  and  dead  beside  the  corse  of  her  lover,  in  the  Hollow  of  Barna.” — 
Story  of  the  Gillie  Grumach . 

I. 

In  the  gold  and  the  purple  of  sunset, 

The  great  Hold  of  Carrick  looks  down 
On  its  greenwoods  and  calm,  winding  river, 

And  far-stretching  moorlands  of  brown. 

The  stout  warder  leans  o’er  the  turret, 

His  helmet  afire  in  the  sun, 

And  his  gay  gleaming  harness  half  on ; 

And  out  from  the  draw-bridge  rides  Marion, 

That  bright,  blessed  Eve  of  St.  John. 


ii. 

Out  she  rides  on  her  little  black  palfrey, 
Round  the  verge  of  the  calm,  reedy  moat, 
And  she  looks  on  the  deep,  glassy  water 
Far  beneath,  where  the  white  lilies  float; 
But  there’s  not  in  those  depths  one  white  lily 
Can  mate  with  her  brow,  snowy  fair ; 

No  tall  iris  bloom  flaunting  there, 

With  its  golden  leaves  spread  like  a banner, 
More  bright  than  her  long,  yellow  hair. 


84 


BALLADS. 


III. 

Out  she  rides  through  the  lone,  dreamy  woodland, 
Where  the  rill  trickles  down  crystal  clear, 
Where  the  brooding  doves  coo  from  the  pine  trees, 
And  the  robin  sings  blithe  on  the  brere ; 

Where  the  gorse,  with  a cincture  of  yellow, 
Encircles  the  marge  of  the  fen, 

Uncrossed  by  the  pathways  of  men; 

And  the  foxglove,  in  crimson  and  purple, 

Kobes  the  steep,  sunny  side  of  the  glen. 


IV. 

There’s  a mound  o’er  the  verge  of  the  valley, 
Looking  out  to  the  far,  golden  west, 

At  its  green,  sloping  base  a clear  streamlet, 

A huge  Druid  cairn  on  its  crest ; 

And  there  ’neath  that  cairn,  by  her  palfrey, 
With  a face  like  the  fresh,  smiling  dawn, 
She  rests,  as  the  calm  hour  steals  on, 

With  the  glory  of  sunset  around  her, 

That  bright,  blessed  Eve  of  St.  John. 


v. 

Ho ! knights  who  are  deft  in  the  tourney, 
And  victors  in  foray  and  fray, 

Can  ye  look  on  that  fair  maid  unconquered, 
As  she  rests  by  the  cairn  rude  and  gray  ? 
Ah,  many  a lance  ye  have  shivered, 

And  many  a keen,  cutting  blade, 

Many  crests  in  the  mire  lowly  laid, 

In  tourney  and  red  tide  of  battle, 

Eor  the  love  of  that  bright  Ormond  maid. . 


VI. 

But  your  lances,  in  vain  they  are  shattered, 
In  vain  cross  your  swords  in  the  fight; 

Eor  Love  is  the  victor  of  victors, 

And  ye  bow  to  the  dust  ’neath  his  might. 
And  the  heart  of  young  Marion  is  stricken, 
You’ll  win  her  sweet  smiles  never  more, 
Eor  her  vows  they  are  vowed  o’er  and  o’er 
To  love  but  one  brave  knight  forever  — 
Despite  thee,  Sir  Bertram  le  Poer. 


f 


BALLADS. 


85 


VII. 

Ah  ! thou  by  her  stern  sire  art  chosen, 

And  thou  shouldst  be  gentle  and  true ; 

But  a deep  vow  of  vengeance  thou’st  sworn, 

Be  she  false,  that  her  falsehood  she’ll  rue. 

Yet  there,  by  that  lone,  ghostly  cairn, 

Out-gazing  o’er  forest  and  lea, 

She  waits  on  the  mound,  not  for  thee, 

But  for  Donat,  the  lord  of  her  bosom  — 

The  fearless  young  Knight  of  Lisree. 

VIII. 

Sank  the  sun  in  a flood  of  red  glory, 

Afar  o’er  the  broad,  bronzed  main, 

And  at  once  through  the  gray,  soundless  twilight, 
Blazed  the  Baal-fires  o’er  mountain  and  plain. 
From  Clonmel  to  the  fortress  of  Graflon, 

And  up  thy  broad  breast,  Sliavnamon, 

Shooting  high  to  the  calm  stars  they  shone, 
With  a weird  glare  of  far-stretching  splendor, 
That  sweet,  windless  Eve  of  St.  John. 


IX. 

As  she  looked  on  the  Baal-fires  out  burning, 
Lighting  castle  and  crag  in  their  glow, 

4 Came  a trampling  of  hoofs  from  the  upland, 

And  a tramp  from  the  deep  gorge  below. 
Throbbed  her  heart  with  a sweet  throb  of  gladness, 
And  anon  with  a strange  fear  was  still, 

As  her  little  steed  turned  towards  the  hill, 
Stamped  its  brazen-shod  hoof  on  the  greensward, 
And  neighed,  with  a voice  wild  and  shrill. 


x. 

Loud,  loud  sounds  the  trampling,  and  louder, 

As  nearer  and  nearer  they  come, 

And  she  sees,  as  she  looks  down  the  valley, 

Two  knights,  spurring  hard  through  the  gloom  ; 
On  they  rushed,  breast  to  breast,  like  the  thunder 
On  the  low,  stony  verge  of  the  shore,  — 

One  went  down  with  a crash,  in  his  gore, 

Young  Donat,  the  lord  of  her  bosom, 

’Neath  the  spear  of  Sir  Bertram  le  Poer. 


86 


BALLxlDS. 


XI. 

There  is  woe  in  the  great  Hold  of  Garrick, 
There  is  weeping  o’er  valley  and  plain, 
There  is  searching  for  young  Lady  Marion, 
But  she’ll  ne’er  ope  her  bright  eyes  again ; 
For  she  lies  by  the  corse  of  her  lover, 

Where  the  sad  little  stream  hurries  on, 

And  no  voice  can  awake  her  save  One  — 
The  Trumpet  that  sounds  for  the  Judgment  — 
That  calm  starry  Eve  of  Saint  John ! 


THE  SIEGE  OF  CLONMEL. 

A.  D.  1650. 


I. 

I stood  beside  a gun  upon  the  Western  Gate 
At  the  rising  of  the  sun,  the  battle  to  await : 

In  the  morning’s  ruddy  glow  showed  the  fire’s  destroying  tracks, 
And  my  comrades  all  below,  with  their  harness  on  their  backs. 


ii. 

Each  with  harness  on  his  back,  by  rampart,  street,  and  tower, 
To  repel  the  fierce  attack  in  the  sultry  noontide  hour, 

Glittered  lance  and  flashed  the  glaive,  till  the  work  of  death  begun ; 
And  one  cheer  my  comrades  gave  as  the  ruthless  foe  came  on. 

hi. 

As  the  wild  waves  dash  and  vault  ’gainst  the  cliffs  ofhighDunmore, 
Fierce  they  mounted  to  th’  assault,  up  the  breach,  in  sweat  and  gore ; 
As  the  billows  backward  flow  at  the  ebbing  of  the  main, 

Back  we  drove  the  daring  foe  to  his  camp-trench  once  again. 


IV. 

Out  burst  each  roaring  gun,  with  its  mouth  of  hissing  flame, 
From  its  war-cloud  thick  and  dun,  as  again  the  foemen  came 
For  vengeance  burning  hot ; but  once  more  we  mowed  them  down 
With  spear,  and  sword,  and  shot,  till  we  drove  them  from  the  town. 


v. 

Cromwell  kept  the  northern  height ; — as  a spectre  pale  was  he, 
When  he  saw  his  men  of  might  twice  before  my  comrades  flee ; 


BALLADS. 


87 

And  he  pointed  with  his  sword  where  the  red  breach  smoking  lay  : 
“ Go ! take  it,  and  the  Lord  shall  be  on  our  side  to-day ! ” 


VI. 

With  psalm  and  trumpet  swell  came  they  on  at  his  behest;  — 
Then  we  rammed  each  cannon  well,  and  we  nerved  each  gallant 
breast ! 

And  the  bloody  breach  we  manned,  with  fearless  hearts  and  high, 
The  onset  to  withstand,  or  for  homes  and  altars  die ! 

VII. 

Tottered  mansion,  tower,  and  wall  at  the  thundering  fire  we  gave ; 
But  thro’  blood,  and  smoke,  and  all,  came  they  on  by  dint  of  glaive  ; 
Till  with  wild  and  deafening  din,  fierce,  to  gorge  their  hate  accurst, 
O’er  the  gory  breach,  and  in,  one  destroying  wave  they  burst ! 

VIII. 

Breast  to  breast  their  charge  we  met,  with  the  battle’s  rage  and  hate, 
Hand  to  hand,  unconquered  yet,  with  the  foe  we  tried  our  fate. 
They  were  many,  we  were  few ; they  were  brave  and  stalwart  men, 
But  we  charged,  and  charged  anew,  till  we  broke  their  ranks  again. 


IX. 

How  we  cleared  each  narrow  street  when  the  foemen’s  flight  be- 
gan ! — 

How  we  rushed  on  their  retreat ! — how  we  slew  them  as  they 
ran ! — 

How  we  quaffed  the  wine  so  bright,  when  our  bloody  task  was  o’er, 

To  the  men  who  ’scaped  the  fight,  and  the  brave  who  slept  in  gore  ! 

x 

Evening’s  cloud  came  o’er  the  hill  — darker  clouds  on  Cromwell’s 
face, 

When,  with  all  his  force  and  skill,  he  could  not  storm  the  place. 

But  our  powder  all  was  gone,  and  our  cannon  useless  lay, 

And  what  man  could  do  was  done,  so  we  might  no  longer  stay. 

XI. 

We  buried  those  who  fell,  with  the  silence  of  the  tomb, 

And  we  left  thee,  brave  Clonmel,  ’neath  the  midnight’s  friendly 
gloom. 

With  slow  and  measured  tread,  o’er  the  low  Bridge  of  the  Dane, 

And  that  dark  breach  where  we  bled,  did  we  ne’er  behold  again. 


88 


BALLADS. 


THE  TWO  GALLOGLASSES. 


i. 

“ I look  across  the  moorlands  drear, 

To  see  my  Donall  coming  o’er. 

He  left  me  for  the  wars  last  year, 

And  night  and  day  I think  and  fear 
I’ll  never,  never  see  him  more. 
Perchance  he’s  slumbering  in  his  gore ! 
Killemree  ! 0,  Killemree  ! 

My  days  are  dark,  my  heart  is  sore, 

To  think  upon  thy  lovely  lea 
I’ll  never,  never  see  him  more ! 


ii. 

“Up  towards  the  black,  black  nortli  he  rode, 
To  fight  the  valiant  Norman  men ; 

Ilis  light  plume  in  the  breezes  flowed, 

And  gallantly  his  armor  glowed, 

As  he  sped  down  our  native  glen ; 

I’ll  never  see  my  love  again ; 

Killemree  ! O,  Killemree  ! 

My  heart  is  sore  with  sorrow,  when 
I think  upon  thy  sunny  lea 
I’ll  never  see  my  love  again.” 

in. 

Beneath  a tree  sat  comrades  two,  — 

Two  galloglasses  in  their  mail; 

All  day  they  rode  the  foray  through  — 

Wild  Diarmid  Keal  and  Donall  Dhue  — 
Against  the  Normans  of  the  Pale. 

Said  Donall  of  the  Gilded  Mail : 

“ Killemree  ! O,  Killemree  ! 

What  dost  thou  fight  for,  Diarmid  Keal?  ” 
“ I fight  all  for  my  fair  countrie, 

Tail  Donall  of  the  Gilded  Mail.” 


IV. 

“And  I fight  for  my  fair  countrie, 
But  eke  for  love  I draw  the  brand : 
To  purchase  fame  for  her  and  me, 
My  Mora,  of  the  southern  lea, 


BALLADS. 


89 


I’ve  ever  worked  with  heart  and  hand ; 
I fight  for  love  and  native  land ; 
Killemree  ! O,  Killemree  ! 

If  one  will  fall,  sure  one  will  stand,” 
Said  Donall  Dhu  all  pleasantly, 

As  they  sat  by  the  Lifley  strand. 


v. 

At  blink  of  morn  upon  the  dell 

The  valiant  Normans  they  descried; 
Then  there  was  groan  and  battle-yell ; 
But  ere  the  noon  brave  Diarmid  fell 
His  comrade’s  rushing  steed  beside ; 
All  for  his  native  land  he  died. 
Killemree  ! O,  Killemree  ! 

It  was  a death  of  fame  and  pride, 
And  his  was  fame,  the  bold  and  free 
Who  fell  upon  the  Liffey  side. 


vi. 

And  black  the  oath  tall  Donall  swore,  — 

“ I’ll  have  revenge  for  him  that’s  slain ! ” 
Then  through  the  Norman  ranks  he  tore, 

But  in  their  flight  along  the  shore, 

Deep  wounded,  he  was  prisoner  ta’en ; 

But  ere  the  morn  he  broke  their  chain, 
Killemree  ! O,  Killemree  ! 

And  bore  him  towards  his  native  plain, 
Resolved  to  die,  or  to  be  free, 

And  see  his  true-love  once  again. 

VII. 

He  climbed  the  mountain  hoar  and  bare, 

And  darted  up  the  highland  pass  : 

Three  foemen  stood  against  him  there  — 

His  keen  sword  whirling  in  the  air, 

He  stretched  the  foremost  on  the  grass  ; 

He  clove  through  shield  of  hide  and  brass  — 
Killemree  ! O,  Killemree  ! 

The  next,  and  from  a gray  rock’s  mass 
He  hurled  the  last  right  furiously, 

And  ’scaped  from  death  in  that  wild  pass ! 


90 


BALLADS. 


VIII. 

As  by  a Norman  bridge  he  came, 

The  warder  laid  liis  lance  full  low, 

To  ask  his  purport  and  his  name ; — 

Tall  Donall’s  sword  went  down  like  flame, 
And  cleft  the  warder  at  a blow ; 

But  little  food  and  much  of  woe, 
Killemree  ! 0,  Killemree ! 

Until  he  reached  her  faint  and  slow, 

And  clasped  young  Mora  tenderly, 

Thus  ’scaped  from  bond  and  brand  of  foe ! 

IX. 

Each  day  she  nursed  him  tenderly, 

Her  Donall  of  the  Gilded  Mail ; 

’Twas  love  for  her  that  set  him  free, 

That  bore  him  up  in  far  countrie, 

Else  he  had  diedrlike  Diarmid  Keal. 

’Twas  all  of  joy  and  none  of  bale, 
Killemree  ! O,  Killemree  ! 

Within  their  native  southern  vale, 

At  bridal  of  that  maiden  free, 

And  Donall  of  the  Gilded  Mail. 


THE  FAIRY  MILL. 


i. 

Away  to  Ounanar’s  glancing  tide, 

Where  the  redbreast  sings  on  the  hawthorn  spray, 

O’er  craggy  hill  and  moorland  wide, 

The  wanderer  takes  his  lonely  way. 

He  is  a warrior  young  and  bold, 

. His  path  from  the  revel  wild  pursuing, 

And  he  sits  where  down  in  Glenanar’s  wold  * 

The  ring-doves  mid  the  dells  are  cooing. 

ii. 

It  is  by  the  Pool  of  the  Fairy  Mill, 

Where  the  redbreast  sings  on  the  hawthorn  spray, 

* Glenanar,  a beautiful  and  romantic  valley  on  the  Limerick  border,  be- 
tween Doneraile  and  Kilfinane. 


BALLADS. 


91 


Where  heard,  but  unseen,  in  the  evening  still, 
Ceaseless  the  merry  wheel  worketh  away ; 

And  lie  lists  to  its  plashing,  weird-like  sound, 

And  he  drinks,  by  all  fairy  spells  undaunted, 

Of  the  crystal  wave  from  his  helmet  round, 

To  the  maid  who  dwells  in  that  mill  enchanted. 

hi. 

He  looks  around  in  the  sunset  light, 

Where  the  redbreast  sings  on  the  hawthorn  spray, 
And  he  is  aware  of  a maiden  bright 
Close  at  his  side  by  the  rock- wall  gray ; 

Darts  clear  light  from  her  star-bright  eyes, 

Sweet  is  her  love-lit  smile  and  tender, 

And  her  shining  hair  o’er  her  shoulders  lies, 

Yellow  and  sheen  in  the  sunset  splendor. 


IV. 

“ Thou  hast  drunk,”  she  cries,  “to  the  fairy  maid, 
Where  the  redbreast  sings  on  the  hawthorn  spray, 
Wear  in  thy  plume  this  small  hair  braid, 

And  think  on  me  at  each  close  of  day.” 

She  has  placed  the  braid  in  his  nodding  plume, 

She’s  gone,  like  sweet  Hope  from  a hall  of  mourning, 
And  he  hears  no  sound  save  the  ceaseless  hum, 

And  the  plash  of  the  fairy  mill-wheel  turning. 

v. 

He  hies  away  from  that  haunted  glen, 

Where  the  redbreast  sings  on  the  hawthorn  spray, 

But  spell-bound,  amid  the  ways  of  men, 

He  thinks  on  the  maid  of  the  mill  alway ; 

He  thinks  till  his  heart  is  tilled  with  love, 

And  that  heart  ne’er  resteth,  so  fondly  laden, 

Till  lie  stands  once  more  in  Glenanar’s  grove, 

And  eager  calls  on  the  fairy  maiden. 


VI. 

He  looks  around  in  the  sunset  light, 

Where  the  redbreast  sings  on  the  hawthorn  spray, 
And  he  is  aware  of  that  maiden  bright 
Close  at  his  side  by  the  rock- wall  gray  : 


92 


BALLADS. 


“ To  thee,”  he  cries,  “ my  love,  I’ve  come 
By  forest  green  and  by  mountain  hoary ; 

Bor  thee  I leave  my  own  loved  home, 

The  joys  of  peace  and  the  battle’s  glory ! 

VII. 

“Then  let  me  live,  fair  maid,  with  thee, 

Where  the  redbreast  sings  on  the  hawthorn  spray, 
Where  the  fairy  mill  sounds  merril}r, 

And  love  shall  lighten  our  home  alway ! ” 

O,  her  beaming  smile ! O,  her  looks  of  love ! 

As  she  leads  him  down  by  that  haunted  river, 

And  there,  ’mid  Glenanar’s  flowery  grove 
They  live  in  cloudless  joy  forever ! 


DUNLEVY. 


i. 

Dunlevy  stands  lone  in  the  forest, 

To  list  to  the  bells’  merry  peal, 

And  their  sounds  make  his  young  heart  the  sorest 
That  e’er  throbbed  ’neath  corselet  and  steel; 
Bor  they  ring  the  gay  bridal  of  Alice, 

The  lady  he  loved  long  and  pure, 

Balse  to  him  in  her  sire’s  feudal  palace, 

By  the  sweet,  lovely  banks  of  the  Suir. 


ii. 

The  Baron,  his  high  Norman  neighbor, 
The  fond,  happy  bridegroom  is  he, 

And  Dunlevy’s  right  hand’s  on  his  sabre, 
To  think  that  such  falseness  could  be ; 
Bor  the  lady  had  vowed  o’er  and  over, 
That  nought  could  her  fondness  allure 
Brom  Dunlevy,  her  brave  knightly  lover, 
By  the  sweet,  lovely  banks  of  the  Suir. 

hi. 

The  hot  noon  came  burning  and  shining 
O’er  hill-top,  and  valley,  and  tower ; 


BALLADS. 


93 


Yet  still  stood  Dunlevy  repining, 

Dark  and  lone  in  that  gay  wild-wood  bower, 
Till  he  saw  far  away  brightly  gleaming 

Casque  and  spear  over  mountain  and  moor,  — 
Till  a trumpet  blast  startled  his  dreaming, 

By  the  sweet,  lovely  banks  of  the  Suir. 


IV. 

Sudden  heard  he  a trembling  and  sighing, 

And  a-nigh  stood  his  love  sorrow-worn, 

From  her  father’s  gay  hall  after  flying 
Ere  the  bridal  could  bind  her  that  morn ; 

And  sudden  away  they  are  sweeping 

On  his  wild  steed  towards  gray  Craganure, 
Where  his  bright  native  torrents  are  leaping, 
Ear  away  from  the  banks  of  the  Suir. 

v. 

From  the  gray  hill  that  towers  o'er  the  valley 
The  bridegroom  and  father  look  down, 

Where  the  mailed  knights  and  vassals  out  sally, 
All  searching  through  green  dale  and  town ; 
But  Dunlevy  from  stern  sire  and  vassal 

With  his  bright  blooming  love’s  now  secure, 
Far  away  in  his  own  native  castle 

From  the  sweet  lovely  banks  of  the  Suir. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  KNOCKINOSS. 

Scene:  A camp-fire  by  the  Shannon.  — An  old  Rapparee,  who  had 
served  in  the  wars  of  1641,  relating  the  battle  to  his  comrades. 


I. 

Attend,  ye  valiant  horsemen,  and  each  bold  Rapparee, 

And  by  our  blazing  camp-fire  a tale  I’ll  tell  to  ye  : — 

With  Murrogh’s  * savage  army,  one  valley’s  breadth  away, 

One  noon  of  bleak  November,  on  Knock’noss  hill  we  lay. 

* Murrogh  an  Theothaun , or,  Murrogh  the  Burner.  He  was  Baron  of  In- 
chiquin,  and  his  name  is  yet  remembered  among  the  peasantry  as  the  most 
ferocious  and  bloodthirsty  of  Cromwell’s  generals. 


94 


BALLADS. 


II. 

Lord  Taaffe  was  our  commander,  and  brave  Mac  Alisdrum, 

And  ’cross  the  lowland  meadows  we  saw  the  foemen  come ; 

Then  up  spoke  bold  Mac  Alisdrum,  “ Now  leave  their  wing 
to  me;” 

And  soon  we  crossed  our  sabres  with  their  artillery. 

hi. 

We  swept  them  down  the  hill-sides,  and  took  both  flag  and 
gun. 

And  back  across  the  meadows  we  made  them  quickly  run ; 

But  swift  as  they  retreated,  more  fast  behind  we  bore, 

Until  we  steeped  our  sabres  from  point  to  hilt  in  gore. 


IV. 

Alas,  alas  ! for  cowards,  and  ho  ! for  dauntless  men! 

Without  one  cause  for  flying,  Lord  Taaffe  fled  through  the 
glen, 

And  all  our  army  with  him  in  panic  rushed  away, 

And  left  us  sore  surrounded  on  Knock’noss  hill  that  day. 


v. 

Then  up  spoke  our  commander,  the  brave  Mac  Alisdrum,  — 

“ The  foe  pursues  our  comrades,  this  way  his  horsemen  come ; 
Then  out  with  each  good  claymore,  and  strike  like  brave  men 
still ! ” 

And  at  his  words  the  foemen  came  charging  o’er  the  hill ! 


VI. 

Mo  bron ! Mo  Iron ! the  slaughter,  when  we  mixed  horse  and 
man ! 

Loud  crashed  the  roaring  battle,  like  floods  the  red  blood  ran ; 
And  few  the  foemen  left  us  to  fight  another  fray, 

And  Alisdrum  they  murdered  at  Knockinoss  that  day. 

VII. 

My  curse  upon  all  cowards,  and  ho  ! for  brave  men  still ! — 
Long,  long  their  bones  were  bleaching  upon  that  blood-stained 
hill! 

Then  choose  a good  commander  to  lead  ye  to  the  fray, 

And  shun  what  lost  the  battle  on  Knock’noss  hill  that  day ! 


BALLADS. 


95 


THE  WHITE  LADYE. 

i. 

The  Baron  of  Brugh  * took  his  steel-gray  steed, 
And  faced  the  mid-day  sun, 

And  he’d  gained  Glennavh, f so  wild  his  speed, 
Ere  the  noontide  course  was  run. 


ii. 

He  rode  by  Glennavh  and  by  many  a grave, 

O’er  that  lone  glen’s  sacred  rill, 

And  he  stopped  not,  nor  stayed,  till  he  reached  the  green 
glade, 

By  the  lied  Bath  of  the  Hill. 

hi. 

Sitting  by  the  lone  Bed  Bath, 

A charger’s  tramp  heard  he. 

And  riding  nigh  in  the  woodland  path, 

Soon  came  the  White  Ladye. 

IV. 

She  was  no  fairy  of  the  place, 

Though  she  shamed  the  fairies’  speed ; 

Milk-white  her  dress,  pale,  pale  her  face, 

And  snow-white  was  her  steed. 

v. 

The  Baron  leaped  as  a knight  should  leap, 

All  in  mail,  to  his  saddle-tree, 

And  away,  away  through  the  woods  did  sweep, 

After  the  White  Ladye. 

VI. 

Till  deep  in  the  lonely  Gap  of  the  Blast, 

She  turned  her  steed  around, 

And  charged  the  Baron  all  furious  and  fast, 

As  he  went  with  a headlong  bound. 

* Brugh,  in  the  old  Irish,  means  a house  — a large  dwelling-place.  It  is 
the  ancient  name  of  Bruff,  in  the  county  Limerick. 

f Glennavh  — the  Holy  Glen  — lies  near  the  ancient  and  picturesque 
churchyard  of  Ardpatrick,  about  two  miles  west  of  Kilfinane.  Bahecn 
Ruadli — the  little  Red  Rath — lies  near  Cloglianathboy  ( astle,  the  beauti- 
ful seat  of  Lord  and  Lady  Ashtown,  a few  miles  soutli-west  of  Kilfinane. 


96 


BALLADS. 


VII. 

A bright,  bright  glaive  in  her  hand  she  bore, 

And  she  came  like  a knightly  foe, 

And  the  Baron  she  struck  on  the  helmet  so  sore, 
That  he  bent  to  his  saddle  bow. 

VIII. 

There  came  a rock  in  his  charger’s  path, 

As  that  furious  course  he  ran, 

And  with  headlong  plunge  and  with  kindled  wrath, 
To  the  ground  went  horse  and  man. 

IX. 

Never  he  rose  from  the  rocky  ground 
Till  the  sunset  o’er  him  shone, 

Then  he  leapt  on  his  steed,  and  he  looked  around, 
But  the  White  Ladye  was  gone. 

x. 

Ere  waned  the  next  moon’s  silver  light 
He  sought  that  place  again, 

And  there  he  saw  a sad,  sad  sight, 

All  in  the  hollow  glen. 

XI. 

There  lay  a dead  knight  in  his  path, 

Cloven  from  crown  to  crest, 

And  the  White  Ladye  by  the  lone  Red  Rath, 

With  an  arrow  in  her  breast. 

XII. 

And  over  the  Ladye  the  Baron  stood, 

As  her  life  began  to  fail, 

And  ever  as  flowed  the  red,  red  blood, 

She  told  her  woful  tale. 

XIII. 

“My  father  lived  where  yon  gray  tower 
Erowns  o’er  the  Champion’s  stream ; 

There  fled  my  days  since  childhood’s  hour, 

All  like  a pleasant  dream. 

XIV. 

“ This  bridal  dress,  with  my  life-blood  red, 

One  lovely  morn  I wore, 


BALLADS. 


97 


For  I in  gladness  was  to  wed 
The  Master  of  Kilmore. 


xv. 

“ The  feast  was  spread,  when  in  there  sped 
The  wild  young  lord  of  Crom, 

And  his  spearmen  tall  crowded  porch  and  hall, 
And  he  said  for  the  bride  he’d  come. 

XVI. 

11  Up  vassal  sprang  and  knightly  guest, 

Each  answering  with  a blow, 

And  soon  was  changed  our  bridal  feast 
To  a scene  of  blood  and  woe. 

XVII. 

“I  saw  my  father  falling  there, 

And  my  love  lie  in  his  gore, 

And  in  wild  despair,  I knew  not  where 
I fled  through  the  wicket  door. 

XVIII. 

“ Soon,  soon  I found  my  courser  white, 

And  rushed  o’er  vale  and  lea, 

But  ever  still,  since  that  fatal  night, 

Crom’s  false  lord  follows  me. 

XIX. 

“ He  chased  me  all  this  fatal  morn, 

He  sent  this  arrow  keen, 

But  never  more  to  the  battle  borne 
Shall  his  proud  crest  be  seen. 

xx. 

“ For  ere  I fell  in  this  lonely  dell, 

My  steed  leapt  forth  amain, 

And  with  this  good  sword  of  my  dead  young  lord 
I cleft  through  the  false  knight’s  brain.” 

XXI. 

Soon  the  Ladye  died,  and  the  Baron  of  Brugh 
Was  a woful  wight  that  hour, 

For  the  slaughtered  man  was  his  brother  Hugh, 
The  bold  knight  of  Crom’s  dark  tower. 

7 


98 


BALLADS. 


XXII. 

And  ever  since,  in  the  lonely  night, 

And  the  twilight,  calm  and  still, 

Glides  that  Ladye’s  sprite  on  her  palfrey  white, 
By  the  Red  Rath  of  the  Hill. 


BALLAD  OF  YOUNG  BRIAN;  OR,  THE  BATTLE 
OF  ATHENREE. 

Jgtte  tfje  jFirst. 

I. 

“ Full  brightly  blooms  the  heather,  like  a sun-empurpled  sea, 
Full  merry  sing  the  wild  birds  on  every  forest  tree, 

And  the  gladsome  kine  are  lowing  over  hill  and  lowland  lea, 
But  O,  my  dark-haired  darling,  what  a day  it  is  to  me ! ” 


ii. 

Thus  spake  my  gallant  comrade,  young  Brian  of  Lisrone,  — 
Thus  spake  he  to  his  sweetheart,  fair  Roisin  Dubh  Malone; 

He  was  the  boldest  rider  that  e’er  grasped  steel  in  hand, 

And  she  — she  was  the  fairest  maid  in  all  green  Thomond’s  land. 

hi. 

“Up  to  the  heathery  mountain,  my  darling,  come  with  me, 

I’ll  show  you  all  our  lances  arrayed  by  stream  and  lea,  — 

Up  to  the  woody  hollow  where  neighs  my  charger  free, 

In  his  bright  war  harness  ready  to  bear  me  far  from  thee  l ” 

IV. 

“Up  to  the  hill,”  she  answered,  “ or  far  from  friends  and  home, 
Through  desert,  woods,  and  valleys,  with  you  I’d  gladly  roam ; 
This  noon  of  golden  summer  is  to  me  a woful  day, 

And  my  heart  will  break  with  sorrow  while  you  are  far  away.” 


v. 

Into  the  woody  hollow  he  led  his  dark-haired  maid, 

And  a shrilly  welcome  to  them  his  gallant  charger  neighed ; 

And  there  beneath  them  shining  in  the  sultry  summer’s  sun, 
With  their  flashing  spears  and  banners  lay  our  brave  bands  every 
one. 


BALLADS. 


99 


VI. 

How  she  wept  to  see  the  banners  and  the  glittering  pomp  of  war, 
And  the  ready  steed  to  bear  him  from  her  circling  arms  afar ; 
How  she  shuddered  at  the  trumpets  ringing  upward  from  the  shore, 
And  vowed  to  love  him  truly  till  the  deadly  wars  were  o’er. 

VII. 

Many  a mournful  kiss  he  gave  her,  as  he  pressed  her  to  his  heart  — 
“ Woe  is  me,”  he  said,  “ my  true  love,  that  from  thee  I must 
depart.” 

Then  he  sprang  into  his  saddle,  and  he  gave  his  steed  the  rein, 
And  his  words  were,  “Love  me  truly  till  I come  to  thee  again.” 

VIII. 

Then  we  marched,  and  we  marched  over  many  a glen  and  glade, 
’Neath  the  banner  of  Prince  Donogh,  the  Connaught  king  to  aid, 
To  drive  the  hostile  Norman  from  our  green  fields  away, 

Ere  he  fastened  on  his  plunder  like  the  wolf  upon  its  prey. 

IX. 

We  marched,  and  we  marched  over  togher,  moor,  and  ford, 

And  to  every  hostile  challenge,  our  answer  was  the  sword ; 

And  in  each  fierce  fray  and  foray  never  man  so  brave  was  known, 
As  my  true,  my  gallant  comrade,  the  horseman  of  Lisrone. 

x. 

We  marched,  and  we  marched  over  bog  and  desert  way, 

Till  we  came  to  where  King  Phelim  with  his  gallant  cohorts  lay ; 
Then  like  thunder  up  the  mountains  from  their  ’campment 
rolled  the  din 

Of  a hundred*  thousand  welcomes,  as  our  bands  came  pouring  in. 


Jgtte  tfje  Second. 

I. 

When  the  morn  blazed  o’er  the  mountains,  then  we  took  our 
march  again, 

To  the  trumpet’s  shrilly  clamor  and  the  war-pipe’s  martial  strain  ; 
And  we  pierced  through  many  a forest,  and  we  wound  by  stream 
and  lea, 

Till  we  neared  our  wily  foemen,  and  we  came  to  Athenrie. 

ii. 

Wirristhru  ! for  the  day  that  we  came  to  Athenrie, 

’Twas  a mournful  day  for  Ireland,  and  a woful  day  for  me ; 


100 


BALLADS. 


There  King  Art  had  fallen  in  battle  in  the  ages  long  before,* 
And  there  died  our  young  King  Phelim  ere  that  hapless  day  was 


Like  a lowering  cloud  of  thunder  on  the  moorland  broad  we  lay, 
Like  a sunbeam  on  its  ragged  skirts,  the  king  rode  forth  that  day, 
In  his  glittering  shirt  of  battle,  and  his  golden  helm  and  plume  : 
Mo  Bron ! that  such  a rider  e’er  should  meet  with  such  a doom ! 


IV. 

O’er  our  bristling  line  of  battle  then  he  cast  his  kingly  eye, 

With  a gaze  full  keen  and  stern,  as  his  chiefs  and  he  rode  by; 

Then  he  turned  him  round  and  pointed  with  his  sharp  and  con- 
quering blade 

To  the  Normans’  iron  chivalrie  upon  the  field  arrayed. 

v. 

“ By  the  blood-red  hand  that  moulders  in  the  cold  clay  of  Ivnock- 
moy,f 

Swear  ye  now  those  ranks  to  shatter,  and  the  Norman  power 
destroy  — 

Then  charge  ye  home,  for  Ireland’s  good,”  was  all  our  brave 
king  said, 

While  from  van  to  rear,  from  flank  to  flank,  our  answering  slo- 
gan spread. 

VI. 

How  the  hot  earth  smoked  and  trembled  ’neath  the  thunder  of 
our  charge, 

As,  with  hearts  for  vengeance  burning,  swept  we  down  the 
streamlet’s  marge ! 

How  the  bloody  spray  splashed  round  us,  how  the  battle  raged 
and  roared, 

As  we  met  the  mail-clad  Normans,  breast  to  breast  at  that  wild 
ford ! 

VII. 

Mo  nair!  our  men  had  nought  to  shield  their  valorous,  hardy 
breasts 

But  their  shirts  of  saffron  shining,  and  their  purply  satin  vests ; 

* Art  the  Solitary,  who,  together  with  the  seven  sons  of  Oliol  Olum, 

fell  in  a battle  fought  by  them  near  this  place  against  Lughaidh  Mac  Con. 

The  place  where  the  battle  was  fought  was  called  Magh  Mucruimhe. 
f Knockmoy  was  the  burial-place  of  Cathal  of  the  Red  Hand,  King  of 

Connaught. 


BALLADS.  101 

But  with  naked  breast  to  steel-clad  heart,  through  the  battle’s 
dust  and  sweat, 

Till  that  woful  eve  shone  o’er  us,  neither  gained  the  vantage  yet. 
VIII. 

My  curse  upon  the  arrow,  and  the  hand  that  shot  it,  too, 

That  struck  our  young  king  on  the  neck,  and  pierced  him 
through  and  through ; 

Down  he  fell  beside  his  banner  on  the  eve  of  that  sad  day, 

And  amid  the  roar  of  battle  soon  his  life-blood  ebbed  away. 

IX. 

“ Come,  follow  me,  my  comrade,”  said  young  Brian  of  Lisrone; 
“ The  king  is  dead,  his  foes  close  round,  — he  shall  not  sleep  alone  ; 
Well  gather  round  the  gory  spot  where  his  fair  body  lies, 

And  we’ll  fight  more  stern  and  keenly  when  we  look  in  his  dead 


We  fought,  and  we  fought,  till  the  eve  closed  o’er  us  dark  — 
Many  a pool  of  blood  was  round  us,  many  a body  stiff  and  stark; 
For  our  gory  sparths  we  buried  in  the  brains  of  many  a foe, 

To  guard  King  Phelim’s  body  on  that  hapless  field  of  woe. 

XI. 

Wirristhru  ! for  the  day  that  we  came  to  Athenrie  ; 

There  a fond  and  gallant  comrade,  and  a king  were  lost  to  me  — 
For  the  king  lay  in  his  gore,  in  the  cause  of  Ireland  slain, 

And  young  Brian  by  his  body  was  a wounded  prisoner  ta’en. 


JFgtte  tfje  (ZEfjtrti. 


I. 


On  that  night  of  blood  and  sorrow  we  fled  far  away, 

With  Prince  Donogh’s  torn  banner,  from  the  field  where  Phelim 
lay ; 

And  we  took  the  southward  passes  till  we  reached  Bunratty’s 
wall, 

Where  we  swore,  before  we  parted,  to  avenge  our  young  king’s 
fall. 

ii. 


Then  I sought  my  comrade’s  sweetheart,  and  told  our  tale  of 
grief ; 

She  mourned  him  for  one  summer  moon,  and  then  she  found 
relief ; 


102 


BALLADS. 


For  she  took  another  gallant — she  that  vowed  so  fond  and  fain 
To  love  young  Brian  truly  till  he’d  come  to  her  again. 

in. 

In  the  dungeon  of  Mac  Feorais  * long  my  comrade  sorely  pined, 
While  the  yellow  leaves  were  rustling  in  the  withering  autumn 
wind ; 

And  while  the  hills  were  whitening  in  the  frost  and  wintry  snow, 
Still  he  lay  a hopeless  captive  in  the  dungeon  of  his  foe. 


IV. 

But  Mac  Feorais’  lovely  daughter  heard  that  prisoner’s  woful  state, 
And  she  stole  unto  his  dungeon,  and  she  pitied  his  sad  fate ; 

And  love’s  rosy  footsteps  followed  on  the  path  where  pity  trode, 
Till  her  heart  for  the  young  captive  with  a wild  affection  glowed. 


y. 

Yet  young  Brian  looked  not  on  her  with  a lover’s  gladsome  eyes, 
He  thought  of  her  far,  far  away,  where  Cratloe’s  mountains  rise ; 
He  thought  of  her  he  loved  so  true,  by  his  native  river  shore, 
And  he  told  Mac  Feorais’  daughter  that  he’d  ne’er  love  woman 


The  summer  birds  were  singing  on  every  blooming  tree, 

And  brightly  shone  the  heather,  like  a sun-empurpled  sea, 

And  the  gladsome  kine  were  lowing  over  glen  and  lowland  lea, 
As  young  Brian  rode  by  Cratloe  hill,  from  his  weary  thrall  set 
free. 


VII. 

Merry  heart  had  that  young  horseman,  as  he  rode  by  rock  and 
dell, 

As  he  looked  upon  those  fairy  scenes  he  knew  and  loved  so  well ; 
Many  a gladsome  song  he  carolled  as  to  gay  Lisrone  he  hied, 
And  found  false  lloisin  Dliuv  Malone  — a stranger’s  happy  bride  ! 


VIII. 

He  turned  him  from  his  childhood’s  home,  and  galloped  fast  and 
far ; 

He  joined  Prince  Donogh’s  banner,  and  he  rode  forth  to  the  war ; 
He  fought  for  Ireland’s  honor  full  faithfully  and  well, 

Till  with  his  prince  on  Barna’s  held  in  Norman  blood  he  fell! 

* The  Irish  name  for  De  Bermingham,  who,  after  the  battle,  was  made 
baron  of  Athenrie. 


BALLADS. 


103 


THE  BATTLE  OF  KILTEELY. 

A.  D.  1599. 


The  mountains  of  Limerick  frown  down  on  a plain 
That  laughs  all  in  light  to  their  summits  again, 

With  its  towers,  and  its  lakes,  and  its  rivers  of  song, 

And  its  huge  race  of  peasants  so  hardy  and  strong. 

ii. 

O,  hardy  its  peasants,  and  comely,  and  tall ! 

But  their  spirits  are  broken,  their  minds  are  in  thrall : 

So,  strike  we  a lilt  of  the  chivalric  day, 

When  their  sires  swept  the  foe  o’er  these  mountains  away. 

hi. 

To  harry  rich  Coonagh  fierce  Norris  came  down 
From  the  towers  of  Kilmallock,  by  forest  and  town, 
Swearing  castle,  and  homestead,  and  temple  to  sack; 

And,  O God ! what  a desert  he  left  in  his  track ! 


iv. 

The  sun  of  the  morning  all  cheerily  smiled 
On  his  ranks  by  Cnock  Rue  and  by  Coola  the  wild, 

And  how  bright  gleamed  their  spears  by  the  tents  white  and  fair, 
As  they  marshalled,  to  plunder  the  green  valleys  there ! 

v. 

They  looked  to  the  east,  and  they  looked  to  the  west, 

And  they  saw  where  their  booty  lay  fairest  and  best; 

Then  they  moved  like  a thick  cloud  of  thunder  and  gloom 
When  it  rolls  o’er  the  plain  from  the  crags  of  Sliav  Bloom. 


vi. 

But  see  ! they  are  halting  — what  wild  music  swells 
By  the  founts  of  Commogue,  through  the  forest’s  green  dells  ? 
’Tis  the  music  of  Eire  — the  fierce  fiery  strain 
Which  ne’er  called  her  sons  to  the  combat  in  vain. 

VII. 

“By  Saint  George!  ” says  fierce  Norris,  and  stops  in  his  course, 
With  his  long  lance  stretched  forth  o’er  the  crest  of  his  horse,  — 


104 


BALLADS. 


“ By  Saint  George,  ’tis  the  Gael!  ’tis  his  pibroch’s  wild  breath; 
But  he  meets  at  Kilteely  his  masters  and  death ! ” 

VIII. 

’Twas  the  Gael.  Slow  they  wound  round  the  foot  of  Cnock  Rue 
Small,  small  were  their  numbers,  but  steady  and  true ; 

And  they  saw  not  the  foe,  where  exulting  he  stood, 

Till  they  reached  the  green  glades  from  their  path  in  the  wood. 


IX. 

Then  changed  was  their  bearing  — man  closing  on  man, 
With  De  Burgo,  their  chieftain  so  proud,  in  the  van; 

With  hate  in  each  eye,  and  defiance  in  all. 

And  their  deep  muttered  war-word,  “We  conquer  or  fall ! ” 


x. 

“ By  the  turrets  of  Limerick!  ” De  Burgo  exclaims, 
“ Black  Norris  a meed  for  his  ravaging  claims ; 

Be  they  countless  as  hail-drops,  we  never  shall  go 
Till  we  measure  our  pikes  with  the  steel  of  the  foe.” 


XI. 

Have  ye  seen  Avondhu,  how  he  rushes  and  fills 
When  the  flood-gates  of  autumn  are  loosed  on  the  hills? 
So  the  tall  men  of  Limerick  sweep  down  on  the  spears 
Of  Norris  the  proud  and  his  fair  cavaliers ! 

XII. 

O Heaven ! ’tis  a fair  sight  to  see  how  each  file 
Of  the  fierce  foe  is  swept  into  carnage  the  while,  — 

Sweet  music  to  hear  over  forest  and  vale 

The  wild  shout  of  triumph  ring  up  from  the  Gael. 

XIII. 

Young  Burgo  is  there  in  his  trappings  so  bright, 

And  he  follows  his  chieftain  for  aye  through  the  fight ; 

But  now  he  forsakes  him,  and  cleaves  his  red  way 
Where  the  banner  of  England  stands  proud  in  the  ray. 

XIV. 

There  Norris  receives  him  with  taunt  and  with  sneer, 
With  his  arquebus  ball  and  a lunge  of  his  spear; 

But  the  pike  of  young  Burgo  tears  fierce  through  his  head, 
And  he  sinks  by  bis  banner  ’mid  piles  of  the  dead. 


BALLADS. 


105 


XV. 

On  passed  the  young  warrior  unscathed  by  all, 

The  rush  of  his  foemen,  the  spear-thrust  and  ball ; 

With  haughtiest  bearing  he  treads  o’er  the  slain, 

And  clears  a good  road  to  his  chieftain  again. 

xvi. 

And  wild  cry  the  Saxons.  Their  chief — where  is  he? 
Struck  down  at  the  foot  of  his  own  banner-tree, 

And  the  banner  is  gone ; there  is  fear  on  each  brow, 

And  a wild  panic  spreads  through  their  broken  ranks  now ! 


XVII. 

And  soon  they  are  scattered  away  through  the  woods, 

Like  the  gray  Connacht  sands  by  the  westerly  floods ; 

But  they  bear  their  gashed  chieftain  afar  as  they  fly, 

And  they  lay  him  in  Mallow  to  rave  and  to  die. 

XVIII. 

And  the  dreams  of  his  murders  came  over  him  there, 

With  the  shadow  of  death  and  the  doom  of  despair; 

And  the  sun  had  scarce  travelled  ten  times  through  the  blue, 
Ere  he  slept  his  last  sleep  by  the  swift  Avondhu. 

XIX. 

Thus  fought  the  huge  men  of  the  plain  long  ago, 

Thus  chased  they  from  Limerick  the  hard-hearted  foe;  — 
May  we  never  meet  death  till  we  see  them  again 
Striking  up  for  old  Eire  as  fearless  as  then ! 


ROMANCE  OF  THE  FAIRY  WAND. 


i. 

’Mid  Gailty’s  woody  highlands,  by  a torrent’s  lonely  shore, 
There  dwelt  a banished  monarch  in  the  dusky  days  of  yore; 
Long  the  pleasant  Munster  valleys  had  owned  his  kingly  sway, 
I ill  rose  a fierce  usurper  and  reft  his  throne  away. 


ii. 

No  vassals  filled  his  chambers,  no  courtiers  thronged  his  hall; 
His  bright-eyed  little  daughter  and  a gray-haired  chief  were  all,  — 


106 


BALLADS. 


Were  all  the  friends  that  never  would  forsake  him  in  his  woe, 
When  he  tied,  a care-worn  exile,  to  that  tower  in  Aherloe. 

hi. 

Around  that  highland  castle,  by  the  shady  forest  springs, 

With  a heart  forever  dreaming  of  all  bright  and  lovely  things, 
Roamed  that  regal  little  maiden  every  golden  summer  e’en, 
Watched  and  loved,  where’er  she  wandered,  by  the  radiant  Fairy 


The  sunset  light  was  reddening  on  the  crest  of  tall  Bein  Gar,* 

As  lay  that  little  maiden  ’neatli  the  flowery  woods  aflir ; — 

“Spreads  this  land,”  she  said,  “how  lovely  ’neatli  the  purple 
sunset’s  light, 

But  Hy  Gaura’s  bard  has  told  me  of  a world  more  fair  and 
bright ! 

y. 

“ Through  that  land  I’d  wish  to  wander;  there  I’d  ask  a warrior 
train 

Of  its  queen,  to  set  my  father  on  his  Munster  throne  again.” 

O,  the  words  she  scarce  had  uttered,  when  there  shone  a radiance 
sheen 

Up  and  down  the  shady  valley  and  the  forest  depths  between ! 


VI. 

On  the  song-birds  fell  a silence,  was  no  sound  through  earth  or 
air, 

Till  in  robes  of  snowy  splendor  stood  a heaven-browed  lady 
there ; 

With  beaming  eyes  down-looking  on  the  little  maid  stood  she, 
All  the  glad  birds  singing  round  her  again  from  bower  and 
tree. 

* Bein  Gar  — the  sharp  summit  — the  name  by  which  Gailty  Mor  is  prin- 
cipally known  among  the  peasantry.  The  castle  of  Dun  Grod  — the  one 
mentioned  in  the  ballad  — lies  on  the  side  of  a glen  to  the  westward  of 
Bein  Gar,  and  is  one  of  the  most  ancient  buildings  of  that  description  in 
Ireland.  Tir-n-an-Oge , the  Land  of  Perpetual  Youth,  was  the  Heaven  of 
the  ancient  inhabitants  of  Ireland.  The  great  Mitchelstown  cavern,  at  the 
back  of  the  Gailty  mountains,  is  said  by  the  peasantry  to  be  one  of  the 
entrances  to  Tir-n  an-Oge.  They  say,  that  should  a person  cross  the  stream 
at  the  far  end  of  the  cavern,  he  could  never,  by  his  own  power,  return  — 
that  he  should  become  an  inhabitant  of  Fairyland  forever  after. 


BALLADS. 


107 


VII. 


Then  spoke  the  Queen  of  Fairy  with  .a  sweet,  lieart-tlirilling 
tone,  — v 

“ Thou  hast  wished,  O,  little  dreamer,  for  a sight  of  our  fair 
zone ; 

Then  a gift  of  power  I bring  thee : take  this  snowy  wand,  and 
when 

Thou  dost  long  to  see  our  bright  land,  raise  it  thrice  in  this  wild 
glen.” 


VIII. 


Scarce  the  witching  words  were  spoken  when  the  Fairy  Queen 
was  gone, 

But  a trailing  light  behind  her  down  the  silent  valleys  shone; 

And  up  stood  that  beauteous  maiden,  instant  bound  in  fairy 
spell, 

And  thrice  she  raised  the  white  wand  in  that  flower- starred  for- 
est dell. 


IX. 


Sudden,  sudden  stood  beside  her  a milk-white  palfrey  fleet, 

And  a-nigh  a mounted  esquire  in  bright  mail  from  crown  to  feet; 
Spell-bound,  mounted  that  young  maiden,  and  away,  wild,  wild 
away, 

O’er  Gailty’s  dreamy  highlands  like  a flash  of  light  went  they ! 


Sudden  fled  the  sunset  heavens,  and  a mighty  vault  instead, 

Lit  with  many-tinted  crystals,  high  o’er  their  pathway  spread ; 

Cavern  spars  gleamed  all  around  them  with  the  white  stars’  silver 
flame, 

Till  they  crossed  th’  Enchanted  Biver,  and  to  Tir-n-an-Oge  they 
came ! 

XI. 

0,  that  land  of  endless  joyance  ! 0,  that  world  of  beauty  bright, 

With  its  green  and  heavenly  mountains  bathed  all  in  silver  light,  — 

With  its  calm  sky  ever  gleaming  all  in  crystal  sheen  above, 

And  its  plains  of  bright  wild  splendor  where  the  happy  spirits 
rove ! 

XII. 

With  its  clear  streams  ever  singing  pleasant  songs  by  hill  and 
wood, 

With  its  silent,  flower-bright  valleys,  where  the  soul  alone  might 
brood 


108 


BALLADS. 


On  the  splendors  all  around  it,  which  gray  time  can  ne’er  destroy, 
And  forever,  and  forever,  on  its  own  immortal  joy! 


XIII. 

Scarce  an  hour  unto  the  maiden  in  that  land  had  passed  away, 
When  they  found  a mighty  falchion  — beside  their  path  it  lay. 
“Take  this  falchion  to  my  father,”  said  the  maid,  “for  some 
sweet  lore, 

Some  strange  power,  doth  sudden  tell  me  ’twill  regain  his  right 
once  more.” 

XIV. 


Sped  the  esquire  with  the  falchion  to  the  exiled  monarch  back, 
And  alone  went  forth  the  maiden  on  her  silent,  heavenly  track, 
Till  beside  a crystal  river  towered  a diamond  palace  sheen, 

And,  with  all  her  court  around  her,  there  she  found  the  Fairy 
Queen. 


xv.  * 


“By  the  magic  gift  you  gave  me,  — by  this  wand  of  strangest 
power, 

Send  me  back,  O,  radiant  empress,  to  the  world  for  one  short 
hour,  — 

Back  to  Dun  Grod’s  hoary  castle,  that  my  father  I may  see, 

And  he’ll  leave  dark  woe  and  sorrow,  and  I’ll  bring  him  back 
with  me.” 

XVI. 

“Few  are  they,”  said  that  bright  empress,  “ who  would  leave  this 
land  again ; 

Yet  go!  and  on  thy  swift  course  thou  shalt  have  befitting  train.” 

Away  the  Munster  princess  and  her  fairy  train  are  gone, 

Through  the  green  vales,  through  the  cavern,  through  the  dark- 
ness, to  the  sun ! 

xtfii. 

When  she  reached  the  green  Earth’s  valleys,  — 0,  that  wondrous 
fairy  zone ! — 

’Stead  of  two  short  hours  of  gladness,  ten  long  years  away  had 
flown ! 

In  the  land  were  many  changes;  ’twas  the  golden  summer  time, 

And  they  asked  a youthful  peasant,  “ Who  now  reigns  in  this 
sweet  clime  ? ” 

XVIII. 

“ Duan  reigns,  our  aged  monarch ; he  has  slain  th’  usurping  lord, 

And  regained  fair  Munster’s  valleys  by  the  might  of  his  good 
sword; 


BALLADS. 


109 


But,  0,  lovely,  lovely  lady,  are  you  come  from  Fairyland, 

You  look  so  bright  and  beauteous  on  this  morning  fresh  and 
bland?” 

XIX. 

The  lady  could  not  answer,  so  filled  with  joy  was  she ; 

With  her  maids  and  fairy  gallants  sped  she  on  o’er  hill  and  lea, 
Till  she  reached  her  father’s  palace,  where  it  stood  by  Shannon’s 
wave, 

And  joyful  was  the  welcome  that  the  gladsome  monarch  gave ! 


xx. 


Soon  he  led  to  his  bright  daughter  a champion  young  and  tall,  — 
“ This  be  he  whose  gallant  father  still  was  faithful  in  my  fall ; 
Thou  canst  ne’er  find  champion  braver,  thou  canst  ne’er  find  love 
so  fond  : 

Wilt  thou  go,  then,  as  thou  sayest  — wilt  thou  raise  the  fairy 
wand?” 


XXI. 


She  looked  on  that  young  champion,  and  at  her  fairy  train, 

Gave  the  wand,  and  never  turned  her  unto  Tir-n-an-Oge  again. 
O,  merry  was  the  bridal,  and  as  glad  the  reigning  time, 

Of  that  princess  and  her  champion  o’er  the  pleasant  Munster 
clime ! 


THE  TEMPLAR  KNIGHT. 

i. 

’Mid  Corrin’s  haunted  wild-woods,  where  the  summer  winds  are 
straying, 

Around  a glade  of  brightness,  from  dells  and  leafy  bowers, 
There  stands  a steed  caparisoned,  a small  steed  wildly  neighing 
To  a boy  and  fair  girl  playing  by  Glendinan’s  high  towers ; * 
And  gayly  round  them  winging,  the  merry  birds  are  singing, 
And  the  stream  its  waves  is  flinging  with  a glad  voice  ’mid  the 
flowers. 

* Glendinan,  an  extensive  valley  at  the  north  side  of  the  Bally-Houra 
mountains,  facing  the  plain  of  Limerick.  At  its  upper  extremity  lies  a 
small,  oblong,  and  dilapidated  stone  chamber,  like  a grave,  called  by  the 
country  people  Iscui^s  Bed ; about  a mile  below  which,  on  the  edge  of  a 
glen,  are  the  remains  of  an  old  building,  which,  according  to  tradition,  was 
an  establishment  of  the  Knights  Templars. 


110 


BALLADS. 


II. 

Moves  the  steed,  with  sportful  neighings,  near  and  nearer  to  his 
master, 

With  axe  and  spear  crossed  bravely  on  his  gilded  saddle-tree. 
Where  springs  the  hoy  with  shout  of  joy,  and,  than  the  fleet 
winds  faster, 

His  comrade,  spurs  he  past  her,  with  a bearing  hold  and  free ; 
Then  sudden  cries,  “ Ho,  yonder  ! see  the  magic  halls  of  wonder, 
Where  the  wizard  old  doth  ponder  on  his  spells  to  fetter  me  ! ” 

in. 

Like  a knight  of  peerless  valor  on  his  wild  steed  he  is  sweeping, 
Towards  the  wizard  tower  he  fancies  in  the  dreamy  forest 
shade,  — 

With  lance  in  rest  for  foeman’s  breast,  his  magic  foe  unsleeping, 
In  swift  course  he  is  keeping  across  that  sunlit  glade. 

And  thus  each  evening  golden,  ’mid  those  mossy  wild-woods  olden, 
By  dark  care  unbeholden,  lived  that  boy  and  bright-eyed  maid. 

IV. 

Years  have  passed  — bright  years  of  gladness  — and  their  bridal 
bells  are  ringing 

Along  the  summer  mountains  from  that  forest  wild  and  wide ; 
All ! thus  from  early  childhood  in  the  heart  should  love  be 
springing, 

Soul  to  soul  in  fondness  clinging  from  its  golden  morning  tide ; 
Yet,  alas ! for  Gerald’s  dreaming  of  a bride  in  beauty  beaming, 
Mora’s  gone  ere  morn’s  first  gleaming  — falsely  fled  from  Cor- 
rin  side ! 

v. 

As  he  waited  by  the  altar,  fair  and  fond  the  dreams  that  bound 
him,  — 

Chief  of  Iloura’s  sunny  greenwoods,  with  a bride  as  fair  as 
May,  — 

And  his  look  was  calmly  joyous  to  the  vassals  circled  round  him, 
Till  the  tale  of  sorrow  found  him  that  his  bride  had  fled  away,  — 
His  love,  his  anger  scorning,  a stranger’s  home  adorning, 

To  Carrignour  that  morning  with  its  baron  bold  and  gay. 


VI. 

The  priest  hath  words  of  comfort,  the  mother  mournful  sighing, 
The  vassals’  shouts  of  fury  loud  as  battle  trumpets  blown, 


BALLADS. 


Ill 


And,  “ Bring  me,”  cries  young  Gerald,  “ my  war-steed,  that 
outflying, 

Ere  the  purple  day  be  dying,  ere  her  paramour  be  flown,  — 

That  the  traitor  lord  may  learn  my  vengeance  red  and  stern, 

Ere  he  treads  his  native  fern  by  the  Eunclieon’s  valleys  lone  ! ” 

VII. 

He  has  donned  his  battle  harness,  and  away  so  wild  careering, 
His  good  steed  bears  him  bravely  towards  the  valleys  of 
Glenroe, 

Till  in  the  golden  noontide,  from  a forest  hill  down  peering, 
Little  caring,  little  fearing,  so  he  meet  his  traitor  foe, 

Where  a stream  its  tide  is  sending  in  many  a silver  bending, 

He  espies  the  false  pair  wending  through  the  flowery  dells 
below. 

VIII. 

By  the  baron  kneels  the  maid  at  the  evening’s  calm  returning. 
But  love  is  drowned  in  sorrow,  and  joy  is  changed  to  fear,  — 

By  the  baron  kneels  the  maid  all  alone  and  wildly  mourning, 
And  his  tales  with  warm  love  burning  she  never  more  shall 
hear ; 

Ear  away  young  Gerald  straineth  from  the  spot  where  she  re- 
maineth, 

And  the  baron’s  life-blood  staineth  his  conquering  border 
spear ! 

ix. 

But  revenge  ne’er  changed  the  bosom  from  its  dark  and  dreary 
madness 

To  joy,  and  thus  with  Gerald  as  he  rides  o’er  moor  and  moss,  — 

“ Ah!  the  shadow  of  despair,”  he  cries,  “ has  sunk  my  hope  in 
sadness, 

Love’s  gold  I sought  in  gladness,  and  find  it  leaden  dross ; 

So  away  from  lovely  Mulla,  where  she  sings  by  height  and  hol- 
low, 

Another  path  I’ll  follow,  — a champion  of  the  cross  ! ” 


x. 

It  was  a golden  morning  ’mid  summer’s  reign  of  splendor, 

Young  Gerald  took  his  lance  and  steed,  and  sped  from  Houra’s 
wold ; 

But  the  fond  farewell,  when  with  sweet  spell  immortal  love  doth 
lend  her 

Words  mournful,  true,  and  tender,  no  weeping  maiden  told, 


112 


BALLADS. 


Yet  one  true  heart  weepeth  ever  since  he  left  his  native  river, 
And  no  joy  the  world  can  give  her,  his  mother  sad  and  old. 


XI. 

And  she  cries  : “ Again,  O,  never  shall  I see  my  Gerald  riding 
To  the  chase  in  merry  greenwood  at  the  blithesome  peep  of 
morn, 

Shall  his  looks  of  gladness  cheer  me,  shall  his  words  of  love 
come  gliding, 

With  peace  and  joy  abiding,  to  my  heart  so  sorrow-torn  ! ” 

But  with  time,  despair  retreating,  hope  springeth  up  unfieeting, 
Else  her  heart  had  ceased  its  beating,  — she  had  died  in  grief 
forlorn. 

XII. 

Long  she  hoped  for  his  returning  to  his  hall  with  name  of  glory, 
Till  the  flowers  of  ten  bright  summers  lay  dead  on  mead  and 
tomb ; 

Then  unseen  he  stood  one  morning  on  Corrin’s  summit  hoary, 
Gazing  round  that  land  of  story  on  each  well-known  scene  of 
bloom  ; — 

Dreams  of  fair  maids  he  was  spurning,  who  might  come  with 
warm  love  burning, 

When  they  heard  of  his  returning,  for  he  wore  the  Templar 
plume ! 

XIII. 

Many  dreams  of  his  sweet  childhood  there  his  memory  might 
borrow, 

Y et  he  entered  with  a sinking  heart  his  native  hall  once  more. 

There  he  found  his  mother  sitting  in  her  lorn  and  silent  sorrow, 
As  she  sat  that  golden  morrow  when  he  left  his  home  of 
yore ; — 

Glad  and  sudden  up  she  started,  “ O,  we’ll  never  more  be 
parted ! ” 

And  she  died  all  joyous-hearted  in  his  arms  by  Mulla’s  shore ! 
xiv. 

To  Glendinan  Sir  Gerald  has  brought  across  the  ocean 

Five  Templars,  he  their  leader,  with  all  their  vassal  power, 

And  thrice  each  day  out  ringing  with  a sad  and  solemn  motion, 
Tolls  their  bell  to  meet  devotion  o’er  cot,  and  hall,  and  bower : 

And  long  their  banner  knightly  in  the  sunshine  glittered  brightly, 
To  the  breezes  fluttered  lightly  from  that  ancient  Templar 
tower ! 


BALLADS. 


113 


ROMANCE  OF  THE  STONE  COFFIN. 


Mournfully,  sing  mournfully, 

The  hollow  cave  of  green  Cnoc-Bron,* 

It  faceth  to  the  golden  west, 

’Mid  the  steep  mountain’s  ridge  of  stone; 
Boulder  and  crag,  around  it  strown, 

Its  entrance  from  the  wild  wind  save,  — 
Mournfully,  sing  mournfully 

The  maiden  of  that  lonely  cave  ; 

The  brightest,  fairest  maid  was  she 

From  dark  Sliav  Bluim  to  Cleena’s  wave.f 


n. 

Mournfully,  sing  mournfully, 

In  gray  Kilmallock  stands  a tower, 

And  there  her  lordly  father  dwelt, 

Long,  long  ago,  in  pride  and  power; 

O,  ample  was  bright  Nora’s  dower, 

And  many  suitors  round  her  came  : 

But  mournfully,  sing  mournfully, 

An  old,  proud  chieftain  owned  his  flame ; 

A false  and  gloomy  man  was  he, 

Yet  high  he  stood  in  martial  fame. 

in. 

Mournfully,  sing  mournfully, 

Some  curse  was  on  her  father  then ; 

He  would  not  list  to  her  true  love 

For  young  Sir  Redmond  of  the  Glen ; 

They  forced  her  to  the  shrine,  and  when 

* Cnoc-Bron,  the  Hill  of  the  Millstones.  It  is  situated  about  two  miles 
north  of  Kildorrery,  on  the  coniines  of  the  County  Cork.  Between  it  and 
Cnoc-Aodh,  another  steep  mountain,  there  is  a narrow  and  deep  pass,  called 
Barna  Dearg,  — the  Red  or  Bloody  Gap,  — in  consequence  of  the  numer- 
ous battles  fought  there  in  ancient  ages.  Cnoc-Bron  is  supposed  to  be  the 
ancient  Sliabh  Caoin,  where  Mahon,  a Munster  prince,  was  murdered,  in 
the  tenth  century.  In  a ridge  of  rocks,  which  runs  towards  the  summit 
of  the  hill,  lies  a small  cave,  called  by  the  peasantry  Shaumer-an-Nora , or 
Nora’s  Chamber.  In  this  cave,  according  to  tradition,  a young  woman, 
named  Nora,  hollowed  out  her  coffin,  and  died  as  told  in  the  ballad. 

t That  part  of  the  ocean  round  the  coast  of  Cork  is  called,  in  Irish  po- 
etry, the  “ Waters  of  Cleena.” 

8 


114 


BALLADS. 


Within  its  sacred  bound  they  staid, 
Mournfully,  sing  mournfully, 

The  withered  bridegroom,  that  fair  maid, 
You  ne’er  have  seen,  and  ne’er  shall  see, 

A bridal  match  so  ill  arrayed. 

IV. 

Mournfully,  sing  mournfully, 

As  died  the  sunset  golden  red, 

The  bridegroom  told,  to  pay  her  scorn, 

His  own  dear  lady  was  not  dead ! 

Alas ! ’twas  truth  the  old  man  said ; 

Then  Nora  started  from  her  rest; 

And  mournfully,  sing  mournfully, 

She  plunged  a dagger  in  his  breast, 

And  fled  by  glen,  and  bower,  and  tree, 

Until  she  reached  Cnoc-Brdn’s  wild  crest 


v. 

Mournfully,  sing  mournfully, 

Her  madness,  and  her  guilt,  and  pain, 

As  fled  that  fatal  summer  night, 

And  morn  leapt  o’er  the  hills  again ; 

O,  tears  may  gush  like  autumn  rain, 

Yet  the  heart’s  sorrow  will  not  go ; 
And  mournfully,  sing  mournfully, 

Young  Nora’s  guilt,  and  pain,  and  woe 
From  her  poor  bosom  would  not  flee, 
Howe’er  her  tears  might  fall  or  flow. 

VI. 

Mournfully,  sing  mournfully, 

The  fruits  and  wild  herbs  of  the  fell 
Were  her  sole  food  for  many  a day, 

Her  drink  a lone  and  rock-bound  well ; 
At  length  she  prayed,  and  who  can  tell 
But  God  did  hear  her  woful  prayer, 
That  mournfully,  O,  mournfully  ! 

She’d  die  on  that  wild  mountain  there, 
And  leave,  for  Heaven,  her  misery, 

Her  guilt,  her  madness,  and  despair. 

VII. 

Mournfully;  sing  mournfully, 

As  by  the  cave  one  noon  she  sate, 


BALLADS. 


115 


Far  looking  towards  her  father’s  hall, 

Still  as  the  crags  and  desolate, 

She  saw  in  burnished  harness  plate 
Many  a fierce  charger  spurn  the  grass, 

And  mournfully,  sing  mournfully, 

Two  armies,  each  in  one  bright  mass, 

Kush  into  battle  thunderingly 

Beneath  her  in  the  Bloody  Pass  ! 

VIII. 

Mournfully,  sing  mournfully, 

She  knew  one  tall  and  fatal  spear  — 

’Twas  young  Sir  Kedmond  of  the  Glen, 

Forth  rushing  in  his  wild  career, 

And  there  the  foe’s  red  banner  near, 

Where  knight  and  kern  lay  strewn  and  killed. 
Mournfully,  sing  mournfully, 

Her  brave  young  lover’s  blood  was  spilled, 
And  there  that  hapless  hour  sat  she. 

The  measure  of  her  sorrows  filled ! 


IX. 

Mournfully,  sing  mournfully, 

She  took  the  huge  dirk  which  had  slain 
That  old,  and  false,  and  villain  chief, 
Ked-crusted  with  its  bloody  stain ; 

A time-worn  crumbling  stone  had  lain 
Beside  the  cave  for  many  a year, 

O,  mournfully,  sing  mournfully, 

“ Of  this,”  she  cried,  “ I’ll  make  my  bier, 
And  die  where  o’er  my  misery 

No  human  eye  can  shed  a tear!  ” 


x. 

Mournfully,  sing  mournfully, 

Night,  and  morn,  and  sunset  red, 

The  lady  plied  that  dagger  strong, 

Till  she  had  scooped  her  narrow  bed. 
Now  the  sweet  summer  time  was  fled, 
And  all  its  flowers  decayed  and  gone ; 
And  mournfully,  sing  mournfully, 

Weak  and  worn,  and  sad  and  wan, 
There  on  an  autumn  eve  sat  she, 

The  last  that  o’er  her  misery  shone. 


116 


BALLADS. 


XI. 

Mournfully,  sing  mournfully, 

She  laid  her  on  her  bier  of  stone, 

And  there  and  then  in  that  wild  cave, 

She  died  for  love,  all,  all  alone ; 

There  ’mid  the  ridge  of  stern  Cnoc-Bron, 
The  peasants  found  her  lifeless  clay, 
And  mournfully,  O mournfully, 

They  bare  her  to  the  abbey  gray, 
Where  sleeps  she  lowly,  silently, 

Within  her  coffin  stone  alway. 


ROMANCE  OF  THE  BANNER. 


i. 

There  was  a banner  old,  in  a tower  by  th’  ocean  bound, 

Its  device  a boat  of  gold,  a lady,  and  a hound ; 

Then,  gentles,  sit  around,  and  a tale  I’ll  tell  to  ye, 

All  about  the  old  green  banner  of  that  tower  by  Cleena’s  sea. 


ii. 

“ Where  away,  O,  where  away?  ” asked  the  hoary  marinere, 
From  a rock  that  towered  so  gray  o’er  the  waters  broad  and 
clear. 

“ To  seek  my  true  love  dear,  doth  he  live,  or  is  he  dead,” 

Cried  young  Marron  with  her  wolf-hound,  as  o’er  the  waves  she 


Night,  with  her  starry  train,  o’er  the  hound  and  fair  ladye  — 
Rose  the  shark  from  out  the  main,  stealing  slowly  on  their  lee, 
On  them  dark  and  wild  looked  he,  — gazed  the  wolf-hound  fierce 
on  him, 

While  he  plunged,  and  glared,  and  passed  them  in  the  ghostly 
midnight  dim. 


IV. 

Vanished  the  starlight  pale ; came  rosy  morn  once  more; 

As  that  boat  so  small  and  frail  sped  the  purpling  billows  o’er, 

A tall  coast  towered  before,  with  great  blue  hills  behind, 

And,  “Perchance,”  cried  Marron,  weeping,  “ here  my  true  love 
I may  find.” 


BALLADS. 


117 


V. 

The  sharp  keel  grates  the  sand ; — ah,  the  sight  before  her  there  ! 
Wrecks  on  wrecks  along  the  strand,  stark  bones  whitening  in  the 
air ; 

Down  she  sat  in  her  despair.  “ Ah,  my  Turlogh  brave  ! ” said  she, 
“ The  storm  came  down  upon  him,  and  his  bones  lie  in  the  sea.” 


VI. 

And  floating  on  the  wave,  beside  the  sand  below, 

The  glittering  plume  she  gave  her  love  two  moons  ago ! 

O,  the  madness  of  her  woe,  O,  her  shriek  of  wild  despair. 

As  she  sank,  like  death  had  struck  her,  on  the  wet  sands  swoon- 
ing there ! 

VII. 

A youth  with  agile  bound,  of  high  and  princely  mien, 

Welcomed  by  Marron’s  hound,  — no  foe  to  her,  I ween,  — 

Has  darted  from  the  screen  of  an  old,  deserted  fane, 

And,  o’erjoyed,  young  Marron  wakens  in  her  Turlogli’s  arms 


Sank  crew  and  galley  trim,  when  the  wild  tempest  roared, 

And  left  alive  but  him,  to  Marron  thus  restored ; 

Nought  saved  he  but  his  sword  from  thundering  blast  and  brine, 
And  he  says,  “ We’ll  seek  green  Desmond,  and  thou  never  more 
shalt  pine.” 


IX. 

On  their  course  the  night  came  down  without  one  planet  bright; 
Great  clouds  of  dreary  brown  quenched  all  their  trembling  light. 
Up  to  the  lowering  height  the  hound  his  gaze  has  thrown, 

And  a sudden  yell  breaks  from  him,  and  a low,  sad,  wailing 


Sudden  the  lightning’s  flash  came  darting  out  on  high, 

And  the  mighty  thunder’s  crash  boomed  o’er  the  boundless  sky, 
And  with  a vengeful  cry  the  storm  began  to  rave, 

And  lowered  them  in  the  hollows,  and  tossed  them  o’er  the  wave. 


XI. 

“ O,  for  the  mighty  rock  where  stands  my  castle  gray  ” — 
Amid  the  tempest’s  shock,  thus  the  young  chief  did  say : — 
“ My  heart  feels  no  dismay,  but  all  for  love  and  thee, 

So  soon  to  sink  and  perish  beneath  the  roaring  sea.” 


118 


BALLADS. 


XII. 

Out  in  the  rushing  wind,  upon  the  greedy  wave, 

His  arm  around  her  twined,  — wildly  he  sprang  to  save ; 

The  boat  whirled  stave  by  stave,  on  towards  the  distant  shore, 
And  the  wolf-hound  plunged  and  turned,  then  dashed  right  on 


The  golden  morn  had  broke  o’er  sea  and  lovely  land, 

"When  calmly  they  awoke  — ’twas  on  their  native  strand ; 
They  made  a banner  grand,  and  on  its  gleaming  fold 
Was  the  hound  and  lovely  lady,  and  the  boat  of  ruddy  gold. 


THE  THREE  SISTERS. 

Part  ttjc  jptrst. 

I. 

There  stands  a crumbling  castle  by  the  winding  LifFey’s  shore, 
Through  its  roof  the  moonbeams  glimmer,  through  its 'hall  the 
night  winds  roar ; 

Fast  the  fox  sleeps  on  its  hearthstone,  green  the  grass  grows  on 
its  floor, 

And  through  battered  wall  and  window  steals  the  ivy  evermore. 

ii. 

In  the  light  of  youth  and  beauty,  fair  as  roses  of  the  May, 

Once  there  dwelt  three  lovely  sisters  in  that  castle  old  and  gray ; 
One  with  tresses  like  the  midnight,  one  with  ringlets  of  the  brown, 
One  with  locks  all  glittering  golden  on  her  white  neck  gleaming 


’Twas  a time  of  war  and  trouble,  when  across  our  native  land 
Swept  black  Cromwell  and  his  crop-ears,  with  full  many  a mur- 
dering band, 

From  their  new  Geneva  Bibles  twanging  forth  their  creed  of  sin, 
And  their  long  swords  for  the  Irish  heads,  each  text  to  ham- 
mer in  ! — 

IV. 

When  the  holy  crag  of  Cashel  wore  a ghastly  crimson  hue 
With  the  blood  of  all  the  martyrs  that  the  demon  Burner*  slew, 


* Murrogh  the  Burner,  baron  of  Incliiquin. 


BALLADS. 


119 


When  the  slain  lay  thick  in  Wexford,  and  like  Boyne’s  autumnal 
wave 

Ran  the  steaming  streets  of  Tredagh  * with  the  best  blood  of  the 
brave. 

Y. 

And  from  out  their  turret  window  could  these  maidens  three 
look  down 

On  many  a rifled  hamlet,  many  a blazing  tower  and  town, 

On  the  bands  of  black  marauders,  as  betimes  they  crossed  the 
flood, 

Preaching  peace  with  sword  and  cannon,  every  sermon  stamped 
in  blood. 

VI. 

But  still  these  bonnie  sisters,  in  their  castle  old  and  hoar, 

Lived  in  peace,  by  none  molested  — wishing,  yearning  evermore 

For  their  lovers’  quick  returning,  who  the  plume  and  helmet  wore 

In  the  hardy  ranks  of  Owen,f  far  away  from  Liffey’s  shore. 


VII. 

Till  a Babe  of  Grace  | one  autumn  with  his  riders  passed  the  way, 
And  he  said,  “ ’Tis  writ  this  castle  shall  be  mine  ere  close  of  day.” 
Quoting  texts  and  ranting  Scripture  for  an  hour  to  show  his  claim, 
Reuben  Roast-and-Burn-the-Gentiles  was  this  godly  hero’s  name. 


VIII. 


He  girded  well  his  armor,  he  raised  a holy  psalm, 

And  on  his  red  sword’s  iron  hilt  he  laid  his  godly  palm ; 

He  cried,  “ Strike  up  the  timbrel  of  God’s  Chosen  Babes,  and 
come ! ” 

And  at  his  back  they  crossed  the  ford  with  sound  of  psalm  and 
drum. 


IX. 

“Ho,  Gentiles!  yield  both  sword  and  gun;  ho,  traitors!  ope  the 
gate; 

This  land  it  is  the  Parliament’s,  and  Parliament  is  fate ! 

For  there  ne’er  was  town  or  city  did  not  yield  to  its  decree ; 
Then  dotf  your  flag,  and  ope  your  gate,  and  yield  this  hold  to  me.” 


x. 

“ Our  flag  upon  the  turret  top  it  ever  fluttered  free,” 

Cried  Ineen  Dhuv,  the  dark- haired  maid,  the  eldest  of  the  three  ; 
“ Our  men  are  few  to  guard  it  well,  but  with  that  gallant  few, 
We’ll  hold  our  own  this  day  against  the  Parliament  and  you!  ” 

* Tredagh,  Drogheda.  f Owen  Roe  O’Neill.  f A Puritan. 


120 


BALLADS. 


XI. 

The  outer  wall  was  thick  and  strong,  and  strong  the  iron  gate, 
And  stout  the  hearts  that  stood  within  black  Reuben  to  await; 
And  though  ’twas  written,  as  he  preached,  that  “ere  the  sun 
should  set, 

He’d  take  that  gallant  tower,”  these  maids  they  held  it  stoutly 
yet. 


Part  tlje  SecontJ. 

I. 

The  night  fell  down  on  Litfey’s  shore,  and  round  that  castle  gray ; 
Black  Reuben  and  his  Babes  of  Grace  like  watchful  sleuth- 
hounds  lay; 

And  Ellen  Ban,  the  youngest  maid,  she  called  her  brother  down, 
A little  boy,  with  bold,  black  eyes,  and  locks  of  wavy  brown  — 


ii. 

“ My  brother  Hugh,  look  yonder,  in  the  forest  old  and  dim; 

A foeman’s  horse  stands  ’neath  a tree  — go  thou  and  capture 
him, 

And  speed  thee  off  to  th*  Irish  camp,  and  seek  my  true  love  dear, 

And  tell  him  of  our  woful  plight,  and  bid  him  soon  be  here.” 

hi. 

He  clambered  o’er  the  outward  wall  — no  fairy’s  foot  more  light ; 

He  stole  unto  the  foeman’s  horse  ’neath  the  friendly  shades  of 
night ; 

He  crept  into  the  saddle,  despite  the  wary  foe, 

And  dashed  away,  through  bush  and  brake,  for  the  camp  of  Owen 
Roe. 

IV. 

On  Liffey  shore  smiled  fair  the  morn  — Black  Reuben  ranged 
his  men, 

“And  soon,”  he  said,  “we’ll  sap  the  gate  of  yon  unhallowed 
den ; 

Think  how  the  Gentiles  bowed  their  necks  when  the  walls  of 
Jericho 

Pell  down  before  blest  Israel’s  voice,  and  charge  ye  on  the  foe.” 

v. 

They  shot  the  warders  on  the  wall,  they  rushed  unto  the  gate, 

They  burst  its  bars,  and  bounded  in  to  glut  their  burning  hate ; 


BALLADS.  121 

Round  turret,  stair,  and  rampart  high,  with  murderous  swords 
they  ran, 

And  dragged  the  brave  defenders  forth,  and  slew  them  every  man. 


VI. 

And  then  from  out  the  castle  hall  they  brought  those  sisters  three, 
Where  Reuben  sat,  beside  a drum,  to  judge  them  speedily. 

“ Ye  fought  against  the  Parliament,  ye  fought  ’gainst  God’s  de- 
cree ; 

I am  his  minister,  young  maid  — hast  aught  to  say  to  me  ? ” 
vn. 

“ I’ve  nought  to  say,”  said  Ineen  Dhuv,  a brave  light  in  her  eye  — 
“ No  words  for  thee,  thou  canting  knave ; I am  prepared  to  die. 
You’d  have  another  tale  to  tell,  this  day  you’d  deeply  rue, 

IfHbold  Sir  John,  my  love,  were  here  to  measure  swords  with  you.” 

VIII. 

“ A curse  upon  thy  pagan  tongue  ! Ho  ! bear  her  to  her  fate.” 
They  dragged  her  ’cross  the  castle  bawn,  and  shot  her  by  the  gate. 
Then  Reuben  looked  on  Rosaleen,  the  second  of  the  three  — 
“Hast  aught  to  say,”  he  grimly  said,  “to  alter  our  decree?  ” 


IX. 

“ I’ve  nought  to  say,”  cried  Rosaleen ; “ but  for  this  deed  you’ve 
done, 

You’ll  sorely  pay,  perchance  this  day,  ere  setting  of  the  sun ; 

I hear  a horse-tramp  on  the  hill,  a plash  beside  the  shore  ” — 

“Ho!  bear  her  to  her  sister’s  doom;  that  sound  you’ll  hear  no 
more.” 

x. 

With  demon  frown  on  Ellen  Ban  then  Reuben  cast  his  eye ; 

She  met  his  gaze  with  steady  look.  “ Art  thou  prepared  to  die  ? ” 

“Art  thou  prepared?”  she  answered  quick ; “for  see,  with  all 
his  men, 

To  pay  thee  back,  comes  my  true  love,  Sir  Gilbert  of  the  Glen ! ” 

XI. 

Then  Reuben  sprang  unto  his  feet,  and  drew  his  sword  — too  late  ! 

For  young  Sir  Gilbert  and  his  men  came  thundering  through  the 
gate; 

They  fell  on  Reuben’s  Babes  of  Grace,  and  slew  them  every  one, 

And  ’venged  those  hapless  sisters  twain  ere  the  setting  of  the  sun. 


122 


BALLADS. 


V*:  ’ 


XII. 

There  grew  a tree  beside  the  gate,  an  oak  tree,  fair  and  high, 
And  from  its  branch  black  Reuben  swung  in  each  wind  that 
wandered  by 

To  sing  its  dirge  his  victims’ graves  in  the  churchyard  sadly  o’er; 
And  thus  they  fared,  those  sisters  three,  by  the  Lilfey’s  winding 
shore. 


ROSE  CONDON. 


i. 

Over  valley,  and  rock,  and  lea, 

Merrily  strike  the  wild  harp’s  strain, 

For  the  fairest  maid  in  the  south  countrie 
Hath  come  to  our  Funcheon’s  side  again ; 

Far  ’mid  the  mountains  of  Green  Fear-muighe,* 
In  lone  Crag  Thierna  f many  a day 

Dwelt  she  long  with  the  fairy  throng, 

Mourning  for  her  home  alway. 

ii. 

An  Ardrigli’s  crown  is  yellow  and  bright  — 

Fill  the  glens  with  the  wild  harp’s  tone  — 

But  it  may  not  match  those  locks  of  light 
So  loosely  o’er  her  fair  brows  thrown ; 

And  the  glance  of  her  eyes,  O,  mortal  wight 
Never  such  glory  saw  before; 

And  her  neck,  as  the  wild  rose  soft  and  white, 
Lone  blooming  by  the  Funcheon’s  shore. 

hi. 

She  is  daughter  of  Condon  brave  — 

Strike  the  wild  harp’s  string  of  pride  — 


* Fear-Muighe-Feine , — the  plain  of  the  Fenian  men,  — which  anciently 
included  the  baronies  of  Condon  and  Clongibbon,  together  with  what  is  at 
present  called  the  barony  of  Fermoy , is  walled  in  on  the  south  by  the 
Nagles  mountains,  and  on  the  north  by  the  Gailtees  and  Bally-Houras,  or 
mountains  of  Mole.  It  was  called  Armoy,  and,  I believe,  Ardmulla,  by 
Spenser.  Along  its  southern  side  flows  the  Blackwater,  forming  a succes- 
sion of  the  most  beautiful  and  romantic  scenes  in  the  south  of  Ireland. 
The  whole  plain  anciently  belonged  to  the  O’Keeffes. 

t Crag  Thierna,  or  Corrin  Thierna,  a romantic  steep,  eastward  of  Fer- 
moy, and  celebrated  in  the  legends  of  the  peasantry  as  one  of  the  great 
fairy  palaces  of  Munster. 


BALLADS. 


The  fiercest  chief  where  thy  waters  rave, 

Dark  Oun  Mor  of  the  rushing  tide ; 

Nine  moons  have  silvered  the  Funcheon’s  wave, 
Since  by  the  towers  of  strong  Cloghlee 
The  fondness  of  her  heart  she  gave, 

To  the  banished  knight  of  thy  woods,  Gailtee  ! 

IV. 

O,  Love  ! thy  power  grows  day  by  day  — 

Strike  the  wild  harp  high  and  bold  — 

Three  eves  had  purpled  the  mountains  gray, 

And  young  Clongibbon  had  ta’en  his  hold, 
Reta’en  his  hold,  regained  his  sway, 

All  for  the  love  of  Condon’s  child, 

And  chased  the  Saxon  far  away 

Beyond  the  pale  of  his  mountains  wild ! 

v. 

Three  eves  more  o’er  Funcheon’s  tide  — 

Strike  the  wild  harp  clear  and  sweet  — 

Rose  Condon  sat  by  the  water  side, 

Her  brave,  triumphant  love  to  meet : 

The  sunset  in  his  purple  pride 
Over  the  far-off  crests  of  Mole, 

And  through  the  glens  and  forest  wide 
A sweet  and  dreamy  silence  stole. 

VI. 

Long  she  waits  her  lover’s  tread  — 

Strike  the  wild  harp  tenderly  — 

Till  day’s  bright  legions  all  are  fled, 

And  the  white  stars  peer  through  the  forest  tree 
Ha ! now  he  comes  by  the  river  bed, 

With  his  martial  step  and  bearing  high ; 

But  why  is  the  maiden’s  heart  adread, 

As  her  warrior  love  draws  fondly  nigh  ? 

VII. 

Does  victory  paint  a warrior’s  mail  — 

Strike  the  wild  harp  fearfully  — 

With  swarth  gold  gems  and  diamonds  pale, 

And  his  plume  with  the  sunbow’s  radiancy  ? 
Her  lover’s  armor  through  the  vale 
Sheddeth  a wild  and  elfin  gleam, 

And  strange  sounds  on  the  breezes  sail, 

Sweet  echoing  o’er  the  star-lit  stream. 


124 


BALLADS. 


VIII. 

The  warrior  now  beside  her  stands  — 
Strike  the  wild  harp  sad  and  low  — 

And  takes  in  his  her  trembling  hands, 

But  her  loved  knight  ne’er  gazed  so  ! 

O,  ’twas  the  king  of  the  fairy  bands 

That  bound  her  in  his  spells  that  night, 
And  bore  her  swift  to  the  elfin  lands, 

Far,  far  away  in  his  love-winged  flight ! 


IX. 

From  Oun  Mor’s  tide  to  Carrig’nour,*  — 
Strike  the  wild  harp  rushingly  — 

From  far  Mocollop’s  mighty  tower 
To  the  storied  hill  of  Kil-da-righ, 

Many  a man  ere  morning  hour 

Through  the  wildwoods  rode  amain : 
They  sought  the  maid  in  hall  and  bower, 
But  fruitless  was  their  search,  and  vain. 


x. 

Condon  sat  within  his  hall,  — 

Strike  the  wild  harp  mournfully  — 

Sadness  did  his  heart  inthrall, 

Grief  for  her  he  might  not  see ; 

Searching  still,  Clongibbon  tall 
Roamed  the  forests  lone  and  drear, 

Like  maniac  man  bereft  of  all 

The  joyance  of  this  earthly  sphere. 

XI. 

Joy  in  lone  Crag  Thierna’s  steep ! — 

Strike  the  harp  o’er  hill  and  wold  — 

Glad  feasts  the  Fairy  King  did  keep 
For  young  Rose  with  the  locks  of  gold ; 

But  ah ! the  maid  did  nought  but  weep, 

And  eight  bright  moons  had  lost  their  flame, 

Yet  still  by  Oun  Mor  swift  and  deep, 

In  sorrow  she  was  still  the  same. 

* Carriganour,  a very  ancient  castle,  a few  miles  below  Mitchelstown, 
on  the  banks  of  the  Funcheon.  Mocollop,  a huge  pile  eastward  of  Clogh- 
leigh,  on  the  shore  of  the  Blackwater.  Kil-dci-righ}  — the  Church  of  the 
two  Oaks,  — at  present  Kildorrery,  a small  town  on  the  Cork  border,  be- 
tween Fermoy  and  Kilmallock. 


BALLADS. 


125 


XII. 

Nine  sweet  nights  have  robed  the  dells — 

Strike  the  wild  harp  bold  and  high  — 

Since  out  with  martial  trumpet  swells 
The  fairy  throngs  came  trooping  by ; 

Round  lone  Molaga’s  holy  cells,* 

Beneath  the  midnight  moon  they  played, 

While  she,  the  victim  of  their  spells, 

Sat  lorn  within  the  ruin’s  shade. 

XIII. 

It  is  beside  a fountain  fair  — 

Strike  the  wild  harp  sweet  and  low  — 

With  sad  heart  brooding  on  her  care, 

She  looks  into  the  wave  below ; 

A shadow  glides  before  her  there, 

And  looking  up,  beside  her  stands 
An  aged  man  with  snow-white  hair, 

With  pitying  eyes  and  clasped  hands ! 

XIV. 

A mitre  decked  in  golden  sheen  — 

Strike  the  wild  harp  wonderingly  — 

A vestment  as  the  shamrock  green, 

And  sandals  of  the  mountain  tree 
He  wears  : the  ancient  saint  I ween  ! 

Ah ! he  hath  heard  the  maiden’s  moan, 

And  bids  her  drink,  with  brow  serene, 

One  pure  draught  from  a cup  of  stone. 

xv. 

The  fays  may  sport  o’er  hill  and  plain  — 

Strike  the  wild  harp  glad  and  bold  — 

But  never  shall  their  power  again 
In  magic  gyve  that  maiden  hold ; 

One  cool,  bright  draught  she  scarce  had  ta’en, 

Scarce  looked  upon  the  vestment  cross, 

When  fearful  died  the  fairy  strain, 

O’er  moonlit  crag  and  lonely  moss  ! 

* Teompal  Molaga,  — the  Temple  or  Church  of  Saint  Molaga,  — an 
extremely  beautiful  and  picturesque  ruin,  about  a mile  north-east  of  Kil- 
dorrery,  on  a bend  of  the  Funcheon.  Beside  it  is  an  ancient  well,  dedicated 
to  the  saint,  to  which  the  peasantry  ascribe  many  virtues,  and  of  which 
many  strange  legends  are  told. 


126 


BALLADS. 


XVI. 

Short  time  their  splendid  pageant  shone  — 

Strike  the  harp  with  gladsome  thrill  — 

Then  faded  in  the  moonlight  wan 

Far  o’er  Calier  Dringa’s  castled  hill ; * 

Short  time  the  moonbeams  glowed  upon 
The  mitre  and  the  vestment  bright, 

The  maiden  turned,  the  saint  was  gone, 

Impatient  to  his  home  of  light ! 

XVII. 

O,  joy ! she  sees  the  eastern  ray  — 

Strike  the  wild  harp  glad  and  clear  — 

The  herald  of  a golden  day, 

The  fairest  in  the  circling  year ; 

It  is  the  first  bright  morn  of  May, 

And  stream  and  plain  smile  calmly  now, 

And  many  a wild  bird  pours  his  lay, 

In  gladness  from  the  greenwood  bough. 

XVIII. 

O,  Freedom  leadeth  where  she  list  — 

Strike  the  wild  harp’s  string  of  pride  — 

Wild  joy  the  maid  can  ne’er  resist 

Impels  towards  Oun-na-Geerait’s  side ; 

There,  while  the  stream  by  day  is  kissed, 

A strange  sight  meets  her  wandering  eyes,  — 

It  is  not  golden  morning  mist 

With  glad  larks  o’er  it  in  the  skies  : 

XIX. 

The  red  fires  of  a Saxon  raid  — 

Strike  the  wild  harp  fierce  and  high  — 

With  scattered  smoke  o’er  many  a glade, 

Blue  curling  to  the  breezeless  sky ; 

* Caher  Dringa  or  Fort  Prospect,  a castle  about  three  miles  south-east 
of  Carriganour.  Oun-na- Geer  ait,  — the  River  of  the  Champion,  — a trib- 
utary of  the  Puncheon.  Glashmona,  a stream  rising  in  the  Bally-Houri 
mountains.  By  the  banks  of  this  torrent,  the  peasantry  tell  many  legends 
relating  to  the  battles  fought  there  between  the  ancient  tribes.  Aha 
Phooka  — the  Ford  of  the  Spirit — is  a steep  and  dangerous  pass  leading 
from  the  county  Limerick  into  the  Clongibbon’s  country. 


BALLADS. 


127 


Helmet  and  lance,  and  well  tried  blade, 

Gleam  brightly  from  the  forest  deep, 

And  many  a creacht  beneath  the  shade 
Lie  silent  in  their  morning  sleep ! 

xx. 

“ Ho  ! wake  the  tired  creachts  from  their  rest ! ” — 
Strike  the  harp  o’er  hill  and  plain  — 

On  toward  Kilfinane’s  mountain  crest 
The  raiders  take  their  course  again ; 

Fear  gathereth  in  the  maiden’s  breast, 

As  wind  away  that  fierce-browed  horde, 

Taking  their  pathway  to  the  west, 

Triumphant  through  the  Spirit’s  Ford. 


XXI. 

Is  that  the  thunder  of  the  flood  — 

Strike  the  harp  all  fiercely  now  — 

She  hears  wild  rising  from  the  wood, 

And  echoing  up  the  steep  hill’s  brow  ? 

O,  rushing  back  in  panic  mood, 

Like  leaves  before  a mountain  wind, 

The  raiders  come  in  dust  and  blood, 

Her  father  and  his  clan  behind ! 

XXII. 

And  who  is  he  her  sire  before  — 

Strike  the  wild  harp  high  and  grand  — 
Scattering  the  raiders  evermore 

Before  the  wide  sweep  of  his  brand? 

Ah  ! well  within  her  fond  heart’s  core 
She  knows  her  lover’s  martial  form, 

As  fiercely  on  the  river’s  shore 

He  sweepeth  through  the  battle  storm. 

XXIII. 

O God ! that  lance  stroke  through  his  side  — 
Raise  the  wild  harp’s  mournful  tone  — 
Stretches  her  sire  where  redly  glide 
The  swift  waves  o’er  their  bed  of  stone ! 
Down  speeds  the  maid,  whate’er  betide, 

Swift  as  Glashmona’s  startled  hare, 

And  soon  — death,  danger,  all  defied  — 

She  bendeth  o’er  her  father  there ! 


J0 


128  BALLADS. 

XXIV. 

0,  joy ! it  is  no  mortal  wound  — 

Strike  the  glad  harp  to  the  skies  — 

She  lifts  his  faint  head  from  the  ground, 

With  heaving  breast  and  tearful  eyes. 

With  wondering  eyes  he  looks  around, 

As  wakening  sense  asserts  its  reign  — 

0,  joy  of  joys  ! the  lost  is  found 

To  cheer  his  course  through  life  again ! 

XXV. 

The  clangor  of  the  fight  is  o’er  — 

Strike  the  wild  harp’s  proudest  lay  — 

Few  raiders  from  that  river  shore 

Passed  westward  through  the  Spirit’s  Way; 
Glad  was  the  look  Clongibbon  wore, 

His  herds  reta’en,  his  valley  free, 

As  clasped  he  in  his  arms  once  more 

The  gold- haired  maid  of  green  Fear-muighe  ! 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THURLES. 

A.  D.  1174. 


I. 

By  the  gray  walls  of  Thurles,  in  O’Fogarty’s  land, 

We  came  to  the  trysting  with  banner  and  brand, 

’Twas  no  true  loves  to  meet,  ’twas  no  fond  vows  to  say, 
But  to  conquer  the  foeman,  or  die  in  the  fray. 


ii. 

Royal  Roderick  was  there  with  his  bravest  and  best, 

The  wild  fearless  clans  from  the  vales  of  the  West; 

Royal  Donal  came  up  from  the  green  hills  of  Clare,  * 
With  his  stately  Dalcassians,  like  lions  from  their  lair. 

hi. 

Where  our  Ardrigh  was  resting,  the  sunburst  gleamed  wide, 
Donal’s  three  bloody  lions  waved  proud  at  his  side, 

And  mavrone,  on  that  morn  how  we  vowed  and  we  swore 
To  freshen  their  tints  in  the  black  Norman’s  gore. 


BALLADS. 


129 


IV. 

Out  rode  Earl  Strongbow  from  Waterford  gate, 

With  his  bowmen  and  spearmen  in  armor  of  plate, 

And  they  harried  rich  ploughland,  and  dangean,  and  hall, 
To  O’Fogarty’s  mountains  from  fair  Carrick’s  wall. 

v. 

This  news  reached  Marisco  in  strong  Aha  Cliath,* 

And  he  smiled  on  his  warriors  a grim  smile  of  glee, 

And  like  wolves  scenting  carnage,  with  rapine  and  flame, 
For  their  share  in  the  booty  to  Thurles  they  came. 


VI. 

In  the  sun  gleamed  their  armor,  waved  their  flags  in  the  gale ; 
Few  warriors  amongst  us  had  helmet  or  mail ; 

But  the  hearts  in  our  bosoms  were  fearless  and  strong, 

And  we  clove  through  their  corselets  and  helmets  ere  long. 

VII. 

Out  rode  the  two  kings  ’mid  our  gallant  array  — 

Small  need  then  for  words  : well  we  knew  what  they’d  say ; 
But  they  pointed  their  spears  where  they  wished  us  to  go, 

And  we  rushed  in  their  path  on  the  iron-clad  foe. 

VIII. 

The  foe  levelled  lances  our  charge  to  withstand, 

And  thick  flew  their  arrows  as  we  closed  hand  to  hand ; 

And  full  stoutly  they  stood,  for  brave  robbers  were  they,  . 

Who  would  part  with  their  lives  ere  they’d  part  with  their  prey. 

IX. 

O,  the  crash  of  the  onset  as  steel  clanged  on  steel ! 

O,  the  Ferraln  we  gave  as  our  blows  made  them  reel ! 

O,  the  joy  of  our  vengeance  as  onward  we  poured, 

Till  we  smote  them  as  Brian  smote  the  fierce  Danish  horde ! 


x. 

Earl  Strongbow  for  life  flies  towards  Waterford  Gate; 

But  few  vassals  around  him  his  orders  await ; 

By  the  brave  walls  of  Thurles  ’neath  our  vengeance  they  died  — 
Wild  we  feasted  that  night  by  the  Suir’s  reddened  tide ! 

* Aha  Cliath,  Dublin  5 pronounced  Aha  Clee. 

9 


130 


BALLADS. 


ROSSNALEE. 

i. 

The  fairy  woman  of  the  wood, 

Rossnalee  ! O,  Rossnalee  ! 

Hath  set  the  spell  in  her  cave  so  rude, 

And  she  cries,  “ Is’t  for  sorrow,  or  all  for  good, 
That  the  lovers  shall  meet  in  the  secret  wood, 
By  the  crystal  waters  of  Rossnalee  ? ” 


ii. 

The  fairy  woman  of  the  wood, 

Rossnalee  ! O,  Rossnalee  ! 

With  her  crimson  gown  and  her  scarlet  hood, 

Cries  again,  “ ’Tis  for  sorrow,  and  nought  for  good, 
That  the  lovers  shall  meet  in  the  secret  wood, 

By  the  crystal  waters  of  Rossnalee ! ” 

hi. 

Many  hearts  the  wild  wars  rue, 

Rossnalee  ! O,  Rossnalee  ! 

Mac  Donogh’s  daughter  weepeth  too, 

As  she  cometh  to  meet  her  lover  true, 

For  war’s  sad  chances  well  she  knew, 

By  the  crystal  waters  of  Rossnalee. 


IV. 

The  first  step  she  took  from  her  father’s  door, 
Rossnalee  ! O,  Rossnalee  ! 

The  ban-dog  howled  on  the  barbican  floor, 
And  her  little  dove  cooed  in  the  turret  o’er, 
With  a voice  of  wailing  and  sadness  sore, 

By  the  crystal  waters  of  Rossnalee. 


v. 

The  next  step  she  took  from  her  home  so  dear, 
Rossnalee  ! O,  Rossnalee  ! 

She  heard  a low  voice  in  her  ear, 

Though  she  saw  but  a white  owl  floating  near  — 
“Thou’rt  the  sweetest  blossom  to  grace  a bier, 
By  the  crystal  waters  of  Rossnalee ! ” 


BALLADS. 


131 


VI. 

As  she  went  down  where  the  crags  are  piled, 
Rossnalee  ! O,  Rossnalee ! 

She  saw  a little  elfish  child, 

And  it  cried  with  a voice  all  strange  and  wild. 

44  Go  back,  thou  lady  fair  and  mild, 

By  the  crystal  waters  of  Rossnalee  ! ” 

VII. 

As  she  crossed  the  rath  and  the  war-grave  rude, 
Rossnalee  ! O,  Rossnalee  ! 

Cried  she  of  the  spells  and  the  scarlet  hood,* 

44  If  thou  goest,  thou  goest  for  sorrow,  not  good, 
And  the  earth  shall  be  dyed  with  my  darling’s  blood, 
By  the  crystal  waters  of  Rossnalee  ! ” 

VIII. 

But  ’gainst  fair  warning  and  friendly  threat, 
Rossnalee  ! O,  Rossnalee  ! 

She  answers,  44  My  heart’s  on  the  try  sting  set, 

And  how  can  I mourn  and  how  regret, 

That  I meet  with  my  gallant  De  Barrette 

By  the  crystal  waters  of  Rossnalee  ? ” 


IX. 

Where  the  mountain  ash  bends  over  the  wave, 
Rossnalee  ! O,  Rossnalee  ! 

She’s  clasped  in  the  arms  of  her  lover  brave, 

Who  cries,  44  Ten  kisses  for  love  I crave, 

For  my  new-won  knighthood  and  conquering  glaive, 
By  the  crystal  waters  of  Rossnalee ! ” 


x. 

44  Mac  Donogh,  aboo  ! ” From  the  darksome  wood, 
Rossnalee  ! O,  Rossnalee  ! 

Rushed  her  sire  and  his  vassals  in  savage  mood,  — 

44  Ho  ! traitor,  my  vengeance  this  hour  is  good, 

For  thou’st  won  thy  spurs  with  my  best  son’s  blood, 

By  the  crystal  waters  of  Rossnalee  ! ” 

* Fairies  are  believed  by  the  peasantry  to  appear  frequently  in  the  form 
of  an  old  woman  clad  in  red  garments,  always  with  some  benevolent  in- 
tention. 


182 


BALLADS. 


XI. 

Three  vassals  were  cloven  through  basnet  and  brain, 
Rossnalee!  O,  Rossnalee! 

When  an  arrow  shot  from  the  wood  amain, 

To  stretch  De  Barrette  upon  the  plain, 

But  the  heart  of  the  maiden  it  cleft  in  twain, 

By  the  crystal  waters  of  Rossnalee. 

XII. 

Down  fell  the  knight  by  his  true-love’s  side, 
Rossnalee  ! O,  Rossnalee ! 

With  a wound  in  his  breast  both  deep  and  wide,  — 

“ O,  death  in  thy  arms  is  sweet!  ” he  cried; 

And  thus  these  lovers  so  faithful  died 

By  the  crystal  waters  of  Rossnalee ! 


THE  PILGRIM. 

i. 

As  I sat  at  the  cross  in  the  village,  it  was  on  a bright  summer 
day, 

An  old  man  came  silently  thither,  was  drooping,  and  bearded, 
and  gray ; 

There  was  dust  on  his  shoon  and  his  garments,  the  sore  dust  of 
many  a mile  ; — 

“ 0,  where  are  you  going,  gray  pilgrim?  Come  rest  ’neath  this 
green  tree  a while.” 

ii. 

“ O,  God’s  holy  blessing  be  on  you ! an  hour  from  my  journey  I’ll 
steal : 

I have  wandered  from  morning  till  noontide,  and  foot-sore  and 
weary  I feel ; 

I am  going  fast,  fast  to  the  graveyard,  and  wish  I may  reach  it 
full  soon, 

Till  under  its  green  grass,  untroubled,  I sleep  by  my  Aileen 
Aroon ! 

hi. 

“ O,  she  was  an  Orangeman’s  daughter!  but  wild  was  her  fond- 
ness for  me ; 

She  dwelt  where  in  glory  and  splendor  broad  Barrow  sweeps 
down  to  the  sea : 


BALLADS. 


133 


She  was  fair  as  the  roses  of  summer,  and  mild  as  a May  morning 
bland ; 

O,  a maiden  so  bright  in  her  beauty  was  never  like  her  in  the 
land! 


IV. 

44  Ah ! darkly  and  sore  I remember,  it  was  in  the  wild  Ninety- 
eight, 

When  peace  from  our  land  was  uprooted,  and  sad  was  the  poor 
peasant’s  fate ; 

I’d  scarce  numbered  twenty  fair  summers,  the  blood  ran  like  fire 
in  my  veins, 

And  I rose  with  the  rest  for  old  Ireland,  to  free  her  from  bondage 
and  chains ! 

v. 

44  I had  a strange  power  ’mong  my  neighbors,  — my  sires  had  been 
lords  in  the  land,  — 

And  soon  on  the  hills  round  me  gathered  a reckless,  a wild  dar- 
ing band. 

Through  many  a sad  scene  I led  them,  by  lone  cot  and  strife- 
ruined  hall, 

Till  a dark  hour  of  gloom  saw  me  faithless  to  God,  and  my 
country,  and  all ! 

VI. 

4 ‘In  the  madness  of  love  I had  promised,  the  last  time  I parted 
my  dear, 

That  I’d  ne’er  draw  the  sword  ’gainst  her  father,  when  met  in  the 
battle’s  career; 

I kept  to  that  promise  too  truly,  betrayed  with  old  Ireland  my 
trust, 

And  my  name  was  soon  named  with  the  traitors,  and  my  idol 
soon  crumbled  to  dust ! 


VII. 

“We’d  camped  in  a gorge  of  the  mountains;  the  redcoats  and 
yeomen  were  nigh : 

4 If  I wait  for  the  morning’s  fierce  battle,  we’ll  meet  ’mid  the 
combat,’  said  I ; 

4 Can  I calm  the  dark  foeman,  that  hates  me,  with  love  for  his 
child  pure  and  bright  ? 

Can  I keep  to  the  promise  I made  her  ? ’ I fled  from  my  com- 
rades that  night ! 


134 


BALLADS. 


VIII. 

“I  fled  like  a deer  through  the  mountains,  to  the  arms  of  my 
Aileen  Aroon ; — 

O,  great  God  of  glory  and  mercy,  the  black  fate  that  met  me  so 
soon ! 

She  lay  in  her  grave-clothes,  down-stricken  by  a sickness  full 
sudden  and  sore, 

And  my  name  was  the  name  of  traitor,  and  my  bright  hopes  were 
quenched  evermore ! 


IX. 

“ From  the  old  pilgrim  places  around  me  to  gray,  holy  Derg  of 
the  lake, 

Since  that  wild  time  of  trouble  and  vengeance,  my  slow  yearly 
pathway  I take ; 

And  I pray  that  my  sins  be  forgiven,  by  many  a lone  ruined 
wall, 

And  I sleep,  — but  I’ll  soon  sleep  beside  her,  the  sweetest,  long 
slumber  of  all ! ” 

x. 

O,  mournful  stood  up  the  old  pilgrim,  and  mournful  took  me  by 
the  hand,  — 

“ May  the  blessings  of  love  be  upon  you,  and  freedom  and  peace 
in  the  land ! ” 

Then  he  drank  at  the  spring  in  the  village,  and  silently  went  on 
his  way ; — 

O,  God  and  His  mercy  go  with  him,  a sure  prop  by  night  and  by 
day! 


THE  TAKING  OF  ARMAGH. 

A.  D.  1596. 


I. 

’Twas  fast  by  gray  Killoter  we  made  the  Saxons  run, 

We  hewed  them  with  the  claymore,  and  smote  them  with  the  gun. 
“Armagh!  Armagh!  ” cried  Norris,  as  wild  he  spurred  away, 
And  sore  beset  and  scattered,  they  reached  its  walls  that  day ! 

ii. 

Alas  ! we  had  no  cannon  to  batter  down  the  gate,  — 

To  level  fosse  and  rampart ; so  we  were  forced  to  wait, 


BALLADS. 


135 


And  ’leaguer  late  and  early  that  place  of  old  renown, 

By  dint  of  plague  and  famine  to  bring  the  foeman  down. 

hi. 

Then  up  ^nd  spake  our  general,  the  great  and  fearless  Hugh,  — 
“ We’ll  give  them  fit  amusement  while  we’ve  nought  else  to  do; 
Then  deftly  ply  your  bullets,  and  pick  the  warders  down, 

And  well  watcli  pass  and  togher,  that  none  may  leave  the  town.” 


IV. 

We  camped  amid  the  valleys  and  bonnie  woods  about, 

But  spite  of  all  our  watching,  one  gallant  wight  got  out, 

Till  far  Dundalk  he  entered  by  spurring  day  and  night, 

And  told  them  of  our  leaguer,  and  all  their  woful  plight. 

v. 

Then  Norris  raised  his  gauntlet,  and  smote  his  mailed  breast  — 
“ God  curse  these  northern  rebels  with  fire,  and  plague,  and  pest. 
Ho ! captain  of  the  arsenal,  send  food  and  succor  forth, 

For  if  we  lose  that  stronghold,  the  Queen  must  lose  the  North.” 


vi. 

’Twas  on  a stormy  twilight,  when  wildly  roared  the  blast, 

Up  to  our  prince’s  standard  a scout  came  spurring  fast, 

And  told  him  how  that  convoy  — four  hundred  stalwart  men  — 
Had  pitched  their  camp  at  sunset  by  Gartan’s  woody  glen. 

VII. 

“ Then  let  them  take  their  slumber,”  said  our  great  prince  that 
night ; 

“ God  wot,  they’ll  sleep  far  sounder  before  the  morning’s  light : 
My  son,  thou’rt  ever  yearning  to  win  one  meed  — renown ; 

Go ! if  thou  slay’st  the  convoy,  then  we  will  take  the  town.” 

VIII. 

He  sprang  upon  his  charger,  our  prince’s  gallant  son, 

And  fast  his  path  we  followed,  till  Gartan’s  glen  we  won ; 

And  there  beside  the  torrent,  with  watch-fires  burning  low, 

Deep  in  their  fatal  slumber  we  spied  the  Saxon  foe. 

IX. 

When  booms  the  autumn  thunder,  and  thickly  pours  the  rain, 
From  Mourne’s  great  mountain  valley  the  flood  sweeps  o’er  the 
plain  — 


136 


BALLADS. 


While  up  our  drums  we  rattled,  and  loud  our  trumpets  blew, 
Like  that  wild  torrent  swept  we  upon  the  Saxon  crew. 


x. 

We  swept  upon  their  vanguard,  we  rushed  on  rear  and  flank, 
Like  corn  before  the  sickle,  we  mowed  them  rank  on  rank, 
And  ere  the  ghostly  midnight  we’d  slain  them  every  one  — 

I trow  they  slept  far  sounder  before  the  morrow’s  dawn. 


XI. 

“Now  don  the  convoy’s  garments,  and  take  their  standard,  too.” 
’Twas  thus,  at  blink  of  morning,  out  spake  our  gallant  Hugh; 
“And  march  ye  toward  the  city,  with  baggage,  arms,  and  all, 
With  all  their  promised  succor,  and  see  what  shall  befall.” 

XII. 

We  donned  their  blood-red  garments,  and  shook  their  banner  free, 
We  marched  us  towards  the  city,  a gallant  sight  to  see; 

Upon  their  drums  we  rattled  the  Saxon  point  of  war, 

And  soon  the  foemen  heard  us,  and  answered  from  afar. 

XIII. 

From  dreams  of  lordly  banquets  that  morn  the  Saxons  woke, 
When  on  their  ears  our  clamor  of  drums  and  trumpets  broke ; 
And  up  they  sprang  full  blithely,  and  crowded,  one  and  all, 

Like  lank  wolves,  gazing  greedily  from  loophole,  gate,  and  wall. 

xiv. 

There  was  an  ancient  abbey,  a pile  of  ruined  stone, 

Two  gun-shots  from  the  ramparts,  amid  the  wild  woods  lone ; 
And  there  he  lay  in  ambush,  our  tanist  brave  and  young, 

And,  as  we  neared  the  city,  upon  our  flank  he  sprung ! 

xv. 

With  all  his  rushing  troopers,  out  from  the  wood  he  sped, 

Their  matchlocks  filled  with  powder  — they  did  not  want  the 
lead  — 

And  well  they  feigned  the  onset,  with  shot  and  sabre  stroke, 

And  deftly,  too,  we  met  them,  with  clouds  of  harmless  smoke ! 

XVI. 

Some  tossed  them  from  their  saddles,  to  imitate  the  slain; 

Whole  ranks  fell  at  each  volley,  along  the  bloodless  plain ; 

And  groans  and  hollow  murmurs  of  well-feigned  woe  and  fear, 
From  that  strange  fight  rang  mournfully  upon  the  foeman’s  ear. 


BALLADS. 


137 


XVII. 

Up  heaved  the  huge  portcullis,  round  swang  the  ponderous  gate, 
Out  rushed  the  foe  to  rescue,  or  share  their  comrades’  fate ; 

And  fiercely  waved  their  banners,  and  bright  their  lances  shone, 
And,  “ George  for  merry  England!”  they  cried,  as  they  fell  on. 

XVIII. 

Saint  Columb ! the  storm  of  laughter  that  from  our  ranks  arose, 
As  up  the  corpses  started,  and  fell  upon  our  foes ; 

As  we,  the  routed  convoy,  closed  up  our  thick  ranks  well, 

And  met  the  foe  with  claymore,  red  pike,  and  petronel ! * 

XIX. 

’Twas  then  from  out  the  forest  our  mighty  chieftain  came, 

Like  a fierce  autumn  tempest  of  roaring  wind  and  flame  — 

So  loud  his  horsemen  thundered,  and  rang  their  slogan  free, 
And  swept  upon  th’  affrighted  foe  with  all  their  chivalrie ! 


xx. 

Yet  stout  retired  the  Saxon,  though  he  was  sore  distrait, 

Till,  with  his  ranks  commingled,  in  burst  we  through  the  gate ; 
Then  soon  the  Red  Hand  f fluttered  upon  their  highest  towers, 
And  wild  we  raised  our  triumph  shout,  for  old  Armagh  was  ours ! 


THE  BARON  AND  THE  MILLER. 


i. 

There  was  a steed,  a brave,  black  steed, 

Lithe  of  body  and  limb, 

And  in  country  or  town,  for  strength  or  speed, 
There  never  was  one  like  him. 


ii. 

He  had  sinews  of  brass  for  the  chase’s  flight, 
Eyes  of  fire  as  he  swept  the  hill, 

He’d  a heart  of  steel  for  the  bloody  fight ; 

And  his  master  was  Hugh  of  the  Mill. 

* Petronel,  a long  dag  or  pistol. 

t The  Bed  Hand,  the  device  on  the  banner  of  Tyrone. 


138 


BALLADS, 


III. 

But  Hugh  of  the  Mill  had  a master,  too,  — 

The  Baron  of  Darenlawr,* 

Whom  he  served  in  peace,  as  a vassal  should  do, 

And  followed  in  day  of  war. 

IV. 

Never  were  twain,  by  hill  or  by  plain, 

So  matched  in  passion  and  ill, 

As  the  baron  bold  of  that  castle  old, 

And  his  vassal,  wild  Hugh  of  the  Mill. 

v. 

By  Cummeragh  one  morn,  with  stag-hound  and  horn, 
They  hunted  like  the  wind, 

But  the  black,  black  steed,  with  his  sinews  of  speed, 
Left  the  ireful  baron’s  behind. 


VI. 

“ This  brown  steed  of  mine,  wild  Hugh,  shall  be  thine, 
With  fifty  crowns  so  bright; 

But  I must  have  thy  charger  brave, 

For  I need  his  strength  in  the  fight ! ” 

VII. 

Then  out  and  told  that  miller  so  bold : 

“ I care  not  for  favor  or  pelf; 

And  this  brave  steed  of  mine  shall  never  be  thine, 

For  I need  his  strength  myself!  ” 

VIII. 

Then  an  ireful  man  was  the  dark  baron, 

And  an  angry  laugh  he  gave  : 

“I  will  have  thy  steed,  though  the  demon  should  feed 
On  thy  carcass,  thou  grinding  knave ! ” 


* Of  this  ancient  castle  but  one  tower,  now  completely  covered  with 
ivy,  remains.  It  stands  on  the  southern  bank  of  the  Suir,  in  the  county 
Waterford,  about  two  Irish  miles  eastward  of  Clonmel.  The  foundations, 
on  arches,  can  yet  be  discerned,  and  from  their  extent  and  thickness,  it 
must  have  been  once  a fortress  of  great  strength  and  importance.  It  was 
garrisoned  for  the  English,  in  the  days  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  by  the  But- 
lers, to  whom  it  belonged.  The  scenery  around  it  is  very  beautiful  and 
romantic. 


BALLADS. 


139 


IX. 

And  though  Hugh  was  strong,  down,  down  to  the  earth 
The  vassals  they’ve  dragged  him  amain, 

And  they’ve  changed  each  saddle,  and  rein,  and  girth, 
And  mounted  him  once  again. 


x. 

On  the  baron’s  brown  horse  now  he’s  mounted  perforce, 
And  the  baron  sits  on  the  other ; 

The  baron  is  glad,  but  the  miller  is  mad 
With  a passion  he  cannot  smother. 

XI. 

He  digs  the  spurs  in  the  brown  steed’s  sides 
Till  it  snorts  with  rage  and  pain, 

Then  up  with  a fiendish  frown  he  rides 
To  the  baron’s  bridle  rein. 

XII. 

“ May  the  memory  of  crime  thy  bosom  freeze, 

The  worm  that  never  dies  — 

Till  the  flames  of  Hell  on  thy  dark  soul  seize, 

And  I see  it  with  mine  eyes  ! ” 

XIII. 

Then  he  plunges  and  volts,  and  away  he  bolts, 

And  down  the  rough  mountain  he’s  gone ; 

While  the  vassals’  laughter  rings  wildly  after, 

And  the  shout  of  the  fierce  baron. 

XIV. 

There  were  battles  enough,  both  bloody  and  tough, 

To  employ  them  both,  I wot, 

And  swift  moons  ran  over  master  and  man, 

Till  the  curse  was  all  forgot. 

xv. 

But  there  came  a day  when  the  baron  lay 
On  his  bed  of  sickness  and  dole, 

And  the  bells  were  rung,  at  the  evening  gray, 

For  his  departing  soul. 

XVI. 

There  came  three  knocks  to  the  miller’s  gate 
In  the  dead  hour  of  the  night, 


140 


BALLADS. 


And  the  miller  he  rose  at  a furious  rate, 

And  looked  in  the  dim  moon’s  light. 

XVII. 

And  there  sat  the  Baron  of  Darenlawr 
Upon  the  swift,  black  horse, 

And  his  fixed  eyes  glared  ’neath  his  visor  bar, 

And  his  brow  was  pale  as  a corse ! 

XVIII. 

“ Come  hither,  come  hither,  thou  miller  brave,  — 

IIo  ! mount  and  follow  me  ! ” 

On  the  dark-brown  steed  Hugh  is  mounted  with  speed 
And  away  with  the  baron  is  he. 

XIX. 

In  their  garb  of  war  by  old  Darenlawr, 

And  down  by  the  rushing  Suir, 

Till  they  strike  on  a track,  all  barren  and  black, 

O’er  a wide  and  lonely  moor. 

xx. 

Black  mountains  rise  to  the  pale,  dim  skies, 

Beyond  that  desert  place, 

As  side  by  side  away  they  ride 
In  a fierce  and  furious  race. 

XXI. 

Taller  and  taller  each  giant  hill, 

And  darker  their  chasms  grow, 

As  away  over  quagmire  and  brawling  rill 
Like  demons  of  night  they  go. 

XXII. 

Redder  and  redder  the  baron's  eyes  glared, 

But  ’twas  more  from  rage  than  fear, 

As  the  bog-fiend’s  lamp  on  their  pathway  flared, 

And  they  swept  that  barrier  near. 

XXIII. 

And  there  at  last  rose  a crag  so  vast 
That  it  hid  in  the  clouds  its  face ; 

Then  the  miller  reined  in,  but  the  baron  spurred  past 
Till  he  neared  its  gloomy  base. 


BALLADS. 


141 


XXIV. 

Then  it  rocked  and  shaked,  and  it  groaned  and  quaked, 
And  its  breast  burst  right  before, 

And  a mighty  flame  through  the  broad  rent  came 
As  from  Hell’s  eternal  door ! 

XXV. 

Yet  on  and  on  spurred  the  fierce  baron 
Till  he  came  to  that  fiery  rent ; 

Then  his  teeth  he  ground,  and  with  one  great  bound 
Through  its  flaming  throat  he  went ! 

XXVI. 

One  hellish  roar  through  the  heavens  tore 
As  the  rent  upclosed  again, 

And  the  bog-fiend’s  lamp  went  out  on  the  swamp, 

And  the  black  cocks  crowed  by  the  fen ! 

XXVII. 

The  miller  he  rose  at  the  break  of  day, 

And  looked  for  the  rock  and  the  moor ; — 

Nought  before  him  lay  but  that  castle  gray 
And  his  own  blithe  mill  by  the  Suir. 

XXVIII. 

Then  he  crossed  the  mill  weir  furiously, 

And  quick  to  the  stable  he  sped ; 

But  a humbled  and  awe-struck  man  was  he 
When  he  found  his  steed  stark  dead! 

XXIX. 

Then,  sore  of  body  and  weary  of  bone, 

To  Darenlawr  he  passed,  — 

From  its  gloomy  halls  rose  the  vassals’  moan, 

For  the  baron  was  gone  at  last. 

XXX. 

“ And  now,  O,  now,  my  brave  black  steed, 

I’ll  have  thee  ! ” the  miller  said, 

As  he  sought  the  stable  with  eager  speed ; 

But  the  black  steed,  too,  was  dead ! 


142 


BALLADS. 


THE  SORROWFUL  BALLAD  OF  DOIREMORE. 

Time  — the  end  of  the  sixteenth  century.  Scene  — a hut  in  the  forest 
of  Connilloe.  The  old  woman  who  had  witnessed  the  murder  of  the  great 
Earl  Garret  relating  the  event  to  James  Fitz  Thomas,  the  new  earl,  and  to 
Patrick  Fitz  Maurice,  Lord  of  Lixnaw. 


I. 

My  curse  light  heavy  on  thee, 

Ghastly  wood  of  Doiremore  ! 

May  the  dews  of  heaven  forsake  thee, 
Never  spring  rain  on  thee  pour; 
May  the  clouds  hang  ever  o’er  thee, 

A pall  of  blight  and  gloom, 

And  thy  best  branch  never  bear  a leaf 
Till  the  mighty  Day  of  Doom ! 


ii. 

Within  thy  traitor  fastness 

Flowed  the  great  Earl  Garret’s  blood, 
Crying  up  to  Heaven  for  vengeance 
On  his  murderers,  gloomy  wood ! 
Never  green  grass  grow  within  thee, 
Never  bird  above  thee  soar, 

Never  flower  thy  glades  enliven, 
Ghastly  wood  of  Doiremore ! 

hi. 

Come  hither,  James  of  Desmond, 

Thou  warrior  true  and  good, 

Bring  hither,  too,  yon  steel-clad  knight 
Who  roams  with  thee  the  wood : 

I see  the  brave  Fitz  Maurice 
In  his  port  and  eagle  eye ; — 

Fit  comrades  are  ye  to  avenge 
Earl  Garret’s  death,  or  die ! 


IV. 

Come  nearer,  nearer,  gallant  knights, 
My  voice  is  weak  and  low ; 

I,  I am  she,  the  aged  wife, 

Who  saw  the  deed  of  woe,  — 


BALLADS). 


143 


Who  saw  the  traitors  stain  their  swords 
In  their  mighty  chieftain’s  gore, 

In  that  woful  spot,  that  place  of  shame, 
The  wood  of  Doiremore ; — 


v. 

’Twas  on  the  blustering  even 
Of  a bleak  November  day, 

I knelt  outside  my  cabin  door 
With  my  last  son  to  pray 
For  his  brave  sire  and  brothers  three 
Who  fell  by  Desmond’s  side  — 

For  Ireland’s  cause  and  Desmond’s  weal 
With  their  harness  on  they  died. 

VI. 

’Twas  then,  as  from  our  hearts  to  Heaven 
Uprose  our  prayer  forlorn, 

An  aged  man  came  down  the  way, 

With  garments  soiled  and  torn  ; 

His  form  like  Ballar’s  blasted  oak, 

His  steps  all  faint  and  slow, 

And  his  matted  beard  upon  his  breast 
Like  white  Benbarna’s  snow. 

VII. 

But  though  so  changed  by  want  and  grief, 

So  worn  with  woe  he  came, 

I knew  the  Desmond  by  his  look 
And  by  his  giant  frame  ; — 

The  look  — the  mighty  arm  that  oft 
So  well  had  swayed  the  sword, 

Where  the  shivered  spears  gleamed  through  the  dust, 
And  the  great  guns  blazed  and  roared. 

VIII. 

Ah ! he  was  hunted  like  the  wolf 
Of  gray  Sliav  Luchra’s  scaurs  ; 

And  wild  with  hunger’s  pangs  was  he, 

And  worn  with  ceaseless  wars. 

We  took  him  in,  we  nursed  him  well 
Through  that  long  night  of  woe, 

Till  the  early  dawn  began  to  light 
Benbarna’s  caps  of  snow. 


144 


BALLADS. 


IX. 

Alas  ! that  ever  rose  that  dawn 
On  Munster’s  stricken  land, 

That  my  last  son  was  but  a child, 

And  mine  a woman’s  hand ; 

That  Desmond’s  kerne  were  far  away, 

By  Dingle’s  stormy  shore, 

When  the  foe  with  their  wild  shout  of  war 
Burst  through  our  cabin  door ! 


x. 

In,  in  black  Dhonal  Kelly  sprang, 

Base  Moriarty  came  ; * 

A moment  quailed  they  ’neath  the  glance 
Of  the  Desmond’s  eye  of  flame ; 

Then  up  black  Dhonal  whirled  his  sword, 

With  many  a murder  dyed, 

And  the  old  earl’s  arm,  gashed  long  and  deep, 

Fell  nerveless  by  his  side ! 

XI. 

“ Back,  traitor  knave  ! ” then  cried  the  earl  — 

“Put  back  thy  caitiff  sword;’ 

False  Moriarty,  sheathe  thy  skian, 

For  I am  Desmond’s  lord ! ” 

But  traitor  skian  and  felon  sword 
Cleft  his  brave  heart  in  twain, 

And  the  great  earl  fell  groaning  down 
Never  to  rise  again ! 

XII. 

They  bore  his  body  up  the  height, 

Then  lopped  his  head  away, 

And  left  me  but  the  bloody  trunk 
To  caoine  the  livelong  day ; 

I washed  it  by  the  mountain  stream, 

Then  raised  the  funeral  cry, 

* Dhonal  O’Kelly,  once  a follower  of  the  Earl  of  Desmond  — at  the  time 
of  the  murder  a soldier  in  the  pay  of  the  English  government.  Dhonal 
Moriarty,  son  of  Dhonal,  petty  chief  of  Corkaguinny,  and  dependant  of 
the  Desmond.  These  two  unexampled  villains,  after  the  murder,  salted 
the  head  of  their  victim,  sent  it  to  London,  and  were  well  paid  by  Elizabeth 
for  their  treachery. 


BALLADS. 


145 


That  lonely  swelled  from  my  son  and  me 
Through  the  wild  November  sky. 

XIII. 

And  thus  they  slew  my  gallant  lord, 
God’s  curse  upon  their  name, 

Be  theirs  a life  of  blackest  gloom 
And  a memory  of  shame ! 

They  spiked  his  hoary  head  above 
The  bridge  of  London  town ; 

But  his  body  sleeps  in  holy  earth 
Bull  many  a good  foot  down. 

XIV. 

My  curse  light  heavy  on  thee, 

Thou  gloomy,  gory  wood, 

And  on  the  two  base,  felon  hearts 
That  planned  that  deed  of  blood ; — 
Withered,  withered,  bare  and  nerveless 
Be  their  arms  and  hands  of  gore, 

Like  thy  lightning-blighted  branches, 
Ghastly  wood  of  Doiremore  ! 


THE  JEW’S  DAUGHTER. 

Part  ttje  jFirst. 

I. 

“ Ho  ! get  yourselves  in  readiness,  and  come  along  with  me  ! ” 
Cried  Edmond  Dliuv  of  Falad  to  his  jollie  companie ; 

To  his  hobbelers,*  his  daltins,f  and  his  foresters  full  keen, 

As  they  kicked  the  rolling  foot-ball  round  and  round  on  Falad 
Green. 

ii. 

Each  brown  and  freckled  forester  stood  listening  at  the  word ; 
Each  hobbeler  refixed  his  belt,  laid  hand  upon  his  sword ; 

Each  daltin  ceased  his  capers,  and  to  think  of  war  began, 

And  cocked  his  baradh  o’er  his  eye,  and  thought  himself  a man. 

* Hobbeler,  a horseman.  t Daltin,  a horseboy. 

10 


146 


BALLADS. 


III. 

61  Come  ! get  yourselves  in  readiness  — a hawking  we  will  go ; 
But  bring  your  harness  on  your  backs  — perchance  we’ll  meet  a 
foe ; 

We’ll  rouse  the  merry  greenwoods  with  the  sounds  of  sylvan 
war, 

And  we’ll  end  our  jovial  hawking  at  the  fair  of  Inis-Corr.* 


IV. 

“ Come  here,  my  brother  Edward,  you’re  a horseman  keen  and 
bold, 

You’ll  see  chargers  there  with  harness  all  bedecked  with  steel 
and  gold, 

You’ll  see  weapons,  costly  armor,  many  another  costly  thing;  — 
By  the  bright  shrine  of  our  Lady,  ’twill  be  pillage  for  a king ! 


v. 

“ There  the  merchants  down  from  Dublin  all  their  treasures  will 
display, 

There  the  foreigners  from  Waterford  their  wares  will  show  that 
day; 

But  we’ll  ease  them  of  their  merchandise  before  the  sun  goes 
down, 

As  sure  as  red  Queen  Bess’s  head  is  stamped  upon  a crown. 


VI. 

“ Then  dress  yourselves  in  motley  sheen  — go,  some  like  harp- 
ers gay, 

And  some  like  jolly  gamesters,  the  rattling  dice  to  play, 

And  some  to  spae  their  fortunes,  and  amuse  them  all  the  day, 

Till  eve  falls  down  on  tower  and  town,  and  we  begin  the  fray.” 

VII. 

The  horseman  bold  who  stood  the  gap,  the  applauding  shout  he 
gave, 

Then  took  the  foot-ball  in  his  hand  and  stabbed  it  with  his  glaive  ; 

His  comrades  swore,  with  yells  galore,  they’d  serve  each  man 
the  same. 

Who,  at  the  fair  of  Inis-Corr,  would  dare  to  spoil  their  game. 


* Eniscorthy.  A great  fair  was  held  here  every  summer-time,  at  which 
the  goldsmiths,  jewellers,  and  other  merchants  from  Waterford,  &c.,  ex- 
hibited their  wares,  and  to  which  the  inhabitants  of  the  county  for  many 
miles  round  came  for  business,  fun,  and  sight-seeing. 


BALLADS. 


147 


Part  tfje  Second. 

I. 

With  hawk  on  his  wrist,  and  plume  on  helmet  crown, 

All  glittering  in  his  armor  to  the  fair  my  lord  is  bowne ; 

And  merrily  we  followed  as  he  rode  o’er  dale  and  down, 

Till  the  sultry  noon  gleamed  o’er  us,  and  we  reached  the  joyous 
town. 

ii. 

I went  into  a tent  with  “ Three  Horsemen  ” for  its  sign, 

I sat  down  with  my  comrade  and  drank  a pint  o’  wine, 

Then  roved  through  the  fair,  and  saw  the  glittering  line 
Of  booths  with  treasure  laden  — all  the  treasures  of  the  mine. 

hi. 

Heaps  of  gems  and  costly  pearls  glittered  gorgeously  in  one, 
Gilded  armor  in  another  flashed  with  splendor  like  the  sun ; 
Kings  of  gold  for  dainty  fingers,  plumes  of  foreign  birds  that 
shone 

Like  the  glory  of  the  heavens  when  the  day-god’s  course  is  run. 

IV. 

I stood  beside  a booth  — ’twas  the  brightest  in  the  Fair, 

All  lit  with  costly  silver  and  with  diamonds  sparkling  rare ; 

But  more  bright  than  blaze  of  silver,  or  the  diamond’s  dazzling 
sheen, 

Sat  a fair  maid  ’mid  that  treasure  all  — a lovely  summer  queen ! 


v. 

I looked  upon  that  maiden,  deep  into  her  lustrous  eyes, 

And  thought,  “ When  Butler  sacks  the  Fair,  she’ll  be  a glorious 
prize ! ” 

I looked  upon  her  father,  and  his  baleful  glance  I knew  — 

Ah ! well  I ought  to  know  it  — ’twas  old  Mark  the  Dublin  Jew  ! 


VI. 

Ah ! well  I ought  to  know  it,  since  that  day  in  Dublin  street, 

An  outlawed  man,  in  pillorie,  they  bound  me  hands  and  feet, 
When  the  jeering  crowd  drew  round  me,  and  old  Mark  glid  down 
the  place, 

And  glanced  at  me  his  baleful  eyes,  and  spat  upon  my  face ! 


148 


BALLADS. 


VII. 

He  sat  beside  his  daughter,  that  young  and  lovely  thing, 

With  eyes  as  black  as  ebonie  and  locks  like  raven’s  wing  — 

I plucked  my  dagger  from  its  sheath,  ’neath  my  cloak  I held 
it  bare, 

And  thought  how  I might  slay  the  sire,  and  the  bonnie  daughter 
spare ! 

Part  tlje  2Ttjtrti. 

I. 

The  golden  sun  was  sinking,  still  by  the  bootli  I stood 
With  Gambling  Dick,  my  comrade,  and  Dermot  of  the  Wood, 
And  they  eyed  the  costly  treasure  as  the  eagle  eyes  his  prey, 
Before  he  swoops  on  arrowy  wings  from  Mora’s  mountain  gray. 

ii. 

And  I — from  off  that  maiden  bright  my  glance  I never  drew 
Until  my  lord  rode  through  the  Bair,  and  gave  the  word  we 
knew  — 

“ Ferrah!  for  bonnie  Falad  and  the  blue  skies  laughing  o’er!  ” 
And  through  the  Fair  that  slogan  swelled  like  the  tempest’s 
maddening  roar. 

hi. 

And  soon  there  was  nor  gold  nor  pearls  nor  diamonds  sparkling 

gay, 

Nor  gilded  mail,  nor  sword,  nor  steed,  that  was  not  Butler’s 
prey ; 

Like  questing  hawks  we  reached  the  town  on  the  noon  of  that 
wild  day, 

And  with  rare  spoil  ere  twilight  fell  o’er  the  hills  we  swept  away ! 

IV. 

But  I — what  booty  did  I bring  when  Butler  gave  the  word? 
From  nigh  that  maid,  through  all  the  fray,  one  foot  I never 
stirred ; 

The  booth  went  down,  old  Mark  the  Jew  was  slain,  but  not  by  me, 
And  from  the  town  his  child  I bore  to  Falad’s  mountains  free ! 


v. 

I nursed  her  in  my  mountain  cot,  to  soothe  her  grief  full  fain, 

I tried  to  raise  her  drooping  heart  for  many  a month  in  vain, 
Till  autumn  with  his  withered  garb  forsook  our  mountain  plain, 
And  winter  died,  and  springtide  suns  called  forth  the  flowers 
again. 


BALLADS. 


149 


VI. 

Ah,  love,  it  is  a wondrous  thing  — the  love  that’s  fond  and  true, 

It  woke  my  prize  from  sorrow’s  trance,  brought  back  the  rose’s 
hue 

To  her  young  cheeks,  and  lit  her  eyes  with  glorious  brilliancie, 
And  turned  her  to  a Christian  maid,  and  conquered  well  for  me. 

VII. 

Last  May-day  at  Saint  Mary’s  shrine  that  stands  beside  the  shore, 
Our  bridal  vows  we  plighted  fond  to  love  for  evermore ; 

And  Dublin  swords  will  ne’er  win  back  that  well-won  prize,  I 
ween, 

For  she  is  now  my  bonnie  bride,  the  flower  of  Falad  Green ! 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  SEA. 

i. 

It  was  the  fairest  maiden  in  Kerry’s  broad  domains 
Her  faith  did  plight  to  an  Irish  knight  by  the  shore  where  Cleena 
reigns ; 

She  was  a Saxon  maiden  — ’twas  to  her  father’s  foe  — 

And  ah,  that  leal  but  hapless  love  did  cause  her  bitter  woe ! 


ii. 

For  her  dark  sire  had  sworn  that  both  their  lives  should  be 
The  forfeit  of  their  meeting  by  Cleena’s  murmuring  sea; 

And  oft  she  wept  her  sister’s  scorn  and  her  black  brother’s  ire, 
And  oft  the  stern  reproval  of  her  lordly  Saxon  sire ! 

hi. 

She  sits  beside  the  greenwood,  the  lady  Jane,  alone, 

To  think  upon  her  hapless  love,  and  make  her  mournful  moan ; 
But  grief  was  gone,  and  joy  soon  shone,  when  by  her  side  stood  he, 
Her  banished  knight,  her  Conal  Dhuv,  the  Hover  of  the  Sea ! 

IV. 

11  I’ve  come  to  thee,  my  lonely  love,  back  from  the  main  sea  wave, 
An  outlawed  man,  a landless  knight,  thy  hand  once  more  to 
crave : 

The  grass  grows  in  my  castle  hall  — but  fly,  my  love,  with  me, 
And  thou  slialt  reign  within  my  bark,  the  Lady  of  the  Sea ! ” 


150 


BALLADS. 


Y. 

Ah ! other  ears  than  his  have  heard  the  low  consent  she  gave 
To  fly  with  him  next  eventide  out  on  the  main  sea  wave ; 

A captain  of  a pirate  bark  was  lurking  in  the  screen, 

And  he  hath  sworn  to  cross  their  love  — a truthful  oath  I ween. 


VI. 

It  was  a golden  sunset,  a gorgeous  eve  of  May, 

And  sea  and  stream  beneath  the  beam  in  calm  resplendence  lay, 
And  all  alone  where  towered  the  crags  like  giants  huge  and 
still, 

A bonnie  page  stood  pensively  by  tall  Saint  Brandon’s  Hill. 

VII. 

A belt  all  bright  with  ruddy  gold  was  o’er  his  shoulders  flung, 

A dagger  and  a silver  horn  from  that  glittering  belt  were  hung, 
And  long  he  gazed  upon  the  deep  where  sank  the  golden  day, 
Till  round  the  rock  there  sudden  peered  a small  sail  far  away. 

VIII. 

He  put  the  horn  unto  his  mouth,  he  blew  a blast  full  clear, 

And  to  its  sound  along  the  waves  that  light  boat  danced  a-near; 
But  soon  he  drew  his  dagger  bright  — he  drew,  alas ! in  vain, 
For  strange  dark  men  around  him  sprang,  and  forced  him  o’er 
the  main ! 


ix. 

Scarce  vanished  was  the  pirate  boat  the  sunset  billows  o’er, 
When  from  the  sea-beat  island  crags  another  sought  the  shore ; 
It  waited  long,  it  moved  a-near,  it  donned  a snow-white  sail, 
But  never  sound  of  bugle  horn  came  whispering  on  the  gale. 

x. 

At  length  there  leapt  upon  the  strand  a youth  with  eagle  eye, 
With  stately  form,  and  kingly  face,  and  bearing  bold  and  high; 
There  found  the  page’s  blood-stained  dirk,  and  cried,  “ Ah,  woe 
is  me  ! 

Some  ruffian  band  have  slain  my  love,  my  Lady  of  the  Sea!  ” 


XI. 

He  rowed  his  boat  full  furiously,  he  gained  his  bark  ere  night, 
And  told  the  sad  tale  to  his  crew  in  the  sunset’s  waning  light. 
They  sailed  away  through  twilight  gray,  through  midnight  drear 
and  dark, 

And  when  the  red  morn  lit  the  spray  they  found  the  pirate  bark. 


BALLADS. 


151 


XII. 

An  old  man  stood  by  Conal  Dhuv,  his  foster-sire  was  he : 

“Now  give  me  speech  with  yon  brave  ship;  perchance  they 
guiltless  be ! ” 

Soon  stood  he  on  their  deck,  and  asked  for  the  page  so  young 
and  fine  : 

“Nor  page,  nor  maid,  we’ve  seen,”  they  said,  “upon  the  salt 
sea  brine ! ” 


XIII. 

The  old  man  looked  around  their  deck : he  saw  the  page’s  horn  : 
“Now,  liars  all,  mark  this ! ” he  cried,  with  looks  of  hate  and 
scorn ; 

Then  drew  his  sword  and  cleared  a path,  and  leapt  into  the  sea, 
And  to  his  chief,  despite  their  shot,  he  swam  right  gallantly ! 

XI Y. 

O ! loud  and  long  the  cheer  they  gave,  young  Conal’s  gallant 
crew, 

As  on  the  pirate’s  deck  they  sprang  for  vengeance  stern  and 
true ; 

Revenge  is  ta’en,  the  foe  they’ve  slain,  though  fought  he  fierce 
and  well, 

But  in  that  hour  of  victory  their  brave  young  chieftain  fell ! 
xv. 

A coronach,*  a coronach  upon  the  ocean  sheen; 

They’ve  brought  the  lady  from  the  hold,  no  more  a page  I ween ; 
They’ve  placed  her  by  her  Conal  Dhuv,  they  raise  the  funeral 
wail, 

And  ever  as  they  vent  their  grief  they  fly  before  the  gale. 

XVI. 

A coronach,  a coranach  by  Cleena’s  fairy  shore ; 

The  lady  died  by  her  lover’s  side  ere  th’  eve  came  blushing  o’er. 
A ruin  crowns  a wave-worn  crag ; there  sweetly  slumbers  he, 
Young  Conal  Dhuv,  with  his  faithful  love,  his  Lady  of  the  Sea! 


* A caoine,  or  lament. 


152 


BALLADS. 


THE  PRINCE  OF  THE  NORTH  COUNTRIE. 

i. 

One  evening  bright,  by  Termon’s  Height, 

Under  the  shadow  of  Termon’s  tree, 

I saw  a young  maid  and  a handsome  knight, 

And  fondly  courting  they  seemed  to  be. 

ii. 

The  cloak  he  wore  was  of  velvet  so  green, 

Pearled  all  with  gold,  hanging  down  to  his  knee, 

And  he  said,  “ Pretty  maiden,  I’ll  make  you  a queen, 

If  you  are  but  willing  to  fly  with  me ! ” 

hi. 

“ To  make  me  a queen  my  birth  is  too  mean, 

And  you  will  get  ladies  of  high  degree,  — 

I know  not  your  name,  nor  the  land  whence  you  came, 
And  therefore  I’m  not  willing  to  fly  with  thee ! ” 

IV. 

“ My  heart  and  hand  shall  be  at  your  command, 

And  my  name  and  land  I will  tell  unto  thee. 

Hugh  Kaynach  * ’s  my  name,  from  Tir  Conail  I came, 
And  the  queen  of  that  country  my  love  shall  be.” 


v. 

“If  I were  to  go  with  one  I don’t  know, 

My  parents  and  friends  would  be  angry  with  me, 
When  I’d  come  back  again  in  shame  and  disdain, 
And  therefore  I’m  not  willing  to  fly  with  thee.” 


vi. 

“ Castles  and  forths  f you  shall  soon  reign  o’er, 
Flower-blooming  valleys  and  halls  of  glee, 

And  a far-stretching  shore,  where  the  breakers  roar, 

If  you  are  but  willing  to  fly  with  me.” 

VII. 

“ I love  to  live  in  my  Munster  home, 

Where  the  sun  shines  bright,  and  the  winds  blow  free  — 


* Hugh  of  the  wild,  ferny  places. 


f Forth,  a fort,  or  Dun. 


BALLADS. 


153 


From  my  loving  mother  I ne’er  could  roam, 

And  therefore  I’m  not  willing  to  fly  with  thee.”  • 

VIII. 

“ In  every  forth  from  this  to  the  North 
We’ll  dance  with  Queen  Una’s  * companie, 

And  the  cares  of  this  earth  shall  be  drowned  in  mirth, 
If  you  are  but  willing  to  fly  with  me  ! ” 


IX. 

“ 1 fear  to  dance  in  the  fairy  hall, 

And  I fear  Queen  Una’s  companie; 

To  Mary,  our  Mother,  I cry  and  call, 

And,  Sir  Knight,  I’m  not  willing  to  fly  with  thee ! 

x. 

“ I’ve  twenty  wounds  on  forehead  and  breast, 

Got  all  in  the  front  for  my  own  countrie ; 

And  again  shall  the  foe  see  my  conquering  crest, 

If  you  are  but  willing  to  fly  with  me ! ” 


XI. 

“ If  you’ve  twenty  wounds  on  forehead  and  breast, 
And  ail  for  the  love  of  your  own  countrie, 

On  that  gallant  breast  I fain  would  rest, 

And,  Sir  Knight,  I am  willing  to  fly  with  thee ! ” 

XII. 

“I’ve  wandered  long  under  fairy  thrall, 

Till  a maid’s  consent  would  set  me  free, 

But  never  could  find  a maid  to  my  mind, 

Till  fortune  proved  kind,  and  sent  you  to  me. 

XIII. 

“ In  the  gladsome  hall  of  Donegal 
Will  be  harping,  and  dancing,  and  revelry, 

And  thou  shalt  be  mistress  and  queen  of  all, 

For  I am  the  Prince  of  that  North  Countrie ! ” 


* Una,  one  of  the  fairy  queens  of  Ireland. 


154 


BALLADS. 


CLONTARF;  OR,  THE  KING’S  LAST  BATTLE. 

A returning-  Dalcassian  soldier,  wounded,  relates  wliat  he  has  seen  of 
the  battle  to  the  warders  dt  the  gate  of  Kincora,  who  had  just  before 
heard  rumors  of  the  defeat  of  the  Danes. 


Quench  ye  the  hearth-fires  blazing  — 

The  beacon  on  the  hill ; 

Hush  ye  your  songs  victorious, 

And  let  your  harps  be  still ; 

For  triumph  comes  too  dearly, 

As  you  shall  shortly  know, 

Stern  guardians  of  Kincora’s  gate, 

Who  look  upon  my  deadly  strait, 

Rent  side  and  riven  armor  plate, 

And  list  my  tale  of  woe. 

ii. 

Good'  Friday  morning  early, 

All  burning  for  the  fray, 

Upon  the  broad  plain  of  Clontarf, 

By  Liffey’s  shore,  we  lay ; 

For,  with  loud  boast,  King  Broder’s  host 
The  power  of  God  defied, 

And  chose  their  battle  flag  to  raise 
On  the  Great  Day  of  grief  and  praise  — 

The  mighty,  mournful  Day  of  days, 

On  which  our  Saviour  died ! 

hi. 

And  there  came  many  a pirate 
From  the  coasts  of  Normandie, 

To  aid  MacMurrogh  * ’gainst  the  king, 

In  his  woful  treachery ; 

And  many  a jarl  from  Orkney’s  isles, 

And  Iceland,  cold  and  dark, 

From  Shetland’s  rocks  and  moorlands  gray, 

From  Faroe’s  strands  of  thundering  spray, 

From  Sweden’s  shores,  and  Norroway, 

And  the  Sounds  of  Dannemarke. 

* MacMurrogh,  brother-in-law  of  Brian,  and  King  of  Leinster.  He 
brought  the  Danes  to  his  aid,  and  was  killed  in  the  battle. 


BALLADS. 


155 


IV. 

As  we  looked  through  the  blood-red  morning, 

We  heard  a murmur  loud  — 

Dark  glimpses  caught  we  of  the  foe, 

Beneath  the  rolling  cloud 
Of  dust,  that  spread  wide,  wide  o’erhead,  — 

A dark  and  threatening  line,  — 

’Neath  whose  voluminous,  dim  wings, 

Like  far-off  lightning  glimmerings, 

Bosses,  and  scales,  and  brazen  rings 
Of  mail  shirts  ’gan  to  shine ! 

v. 

And  ever  as  spread  that  war-cloud, 

And  ever  nearer  came, 

From  its  dim  womb  of  dusky  gloom, 

In  myriad  points  of  flame 
Glittered  the  Norland  lances, 

Like  a world  of  waving  corn ; 

When  o’er  Momonia’s  * broad  domains 
Of  fertile  hills  and  fruitful  plains, 

Through  fleeting  clouds  and  summer  rains, 

Shine  the  slanting  beams  of  morn. 

VI. 

Then  a light  wind  rose  from  the  westward, 

And  blew  that  cloud  away, 

And  in  barbarous  pride,  extending  wide, 

We  saw  their  huge  array 
Of  men  and  horse,  of  flags  and  shields, 

And  all  their  braverie, 

Advancing  .’neath  the  morning’s  glow, 

Rank  after  rank,  like  waves  that  flow, 

Topped  with  white  spray,  when  March  winds  blow 
O’er  the  wild  Ulidian  f sea. 

VII. 

Loud  was  the  roar  and  tumult, 

As  to  our  arms  we  sprung, 

And  weapon  clank  from  rank  to  rank 
In  rattling  discord  rung ; 

Till  forward  rode  our  aged  king, 

In  glittering  mail  bediglit  — 

* Momonia,  Munster.  f Ulidia,  Ulster. 


156 


BALLADS. 


Sternly  our  ordered  lines  he  scanned, 

His  white  hair  by  the  breezes  fanned, 

Ilis  golden  cross  in  his  left  hand, 

And  his  good  sword  in  the  right ! 

VIII. 

“ Be  not  dismayed,  my  children ! ” 

He  said,  and  held  on  high 
The  holy  cross.  “ O,  look  on  this ! 

’Twill  teach  you  how  to  die; 

And  doubt  ye  not  but  the  good  sword  — 

I still  can  wield  it  well  — 

That  gleamed  triumphantly  of  yore, 

Through  Limerick’s  streets,  by  S cattery’s  shore, 
By  far  Macroom,  that  day  of  gore, 

When  Mahon’s  murderers  fell ! 


IX. 

“ Fear  not  for  this  day’s  battle ; 

Though  Donogh’s  * far  away, 

With  the  third  part  of  our  gallant  host, 

He’s  at  his  work  to-day, 

Spreading  through  false  MacMurrogh’s  fields 
The  terror  of  our  ire, 

From  Boss  to  wild  Kilmantan’s  f lands, 

From  Barrow  bright  to  Wexford’s  strands, 
Plundering  with  his  victorious  bands, 

And  burning  corn  and  byre ! 

x. 

“Long  have  you  felt  their  tyranny, 

The  woes  that  slavery  brings ; 

These  raiders  fierce,  these  pirates  dark, 

These  murderers  of  your  kings  : 

Then  may  His  Son,  who  died  for  us, 

Scatter  their  strong  array, 

As,  like  a fierce,  destroying  flame, 

You  rush  on  them,  to  wash  the  shame 
Of  slavery,  that  clouds  your  name, 

In  their  false  blood  out  to-day  ! ” 

XI. 

Then  loudly  rose  our  war-cry, 

And  loud  clashed  spear  and  shield, 

* Donogh,  second  son  of  Brian.  f Kilmantan,  Wicklow. 


BALLADS. 


157 


As  on  the  Danish  lines  we  sprang, 

Across  the  echoing  field ; 

Brightly  their  burnished  hauberks  gleamed 
In  the  clear  morning’s  glow, 

Till,  ’neath  the  rising  war-cloud  lost, 

In  battle’s  tide  together  tossed, 

Sword  clanged  on  sword,  and  spears  were  crossed, 
And  the  red  blood  ’gan  to  flow. 

XII. 

And  ever  as  to  our  nostrils 

Rose  the  maddening  steam  of  gore, 

Fierce  and  more  fierce  grew  the  hearts  of  the  brave, 
And  louder  the  conflict’s  roar. 

Breastplate  to  breastplate,  knee  to  knee, 

Fought  the  Norsemen,  stern  and  bold, 

Till  the  hot  blood  flowed  like  the  Shannon  tide, 

And  the  dead  lay  scattered  thick  and  wide, 

And  many  a crest  and  head  of  pride 
On  the  sweltering  greensward  rolled ! 

xm. 

But  vain  their  might  and  their  splendor, 

For  still  we  slew  and  slew  — 

Some  clutched  we  by  the  flowing  beards, 

And  pierced  them  through  and  through ; 

Some  stamped  we  o’er  in  blood  and  dust, 

By  our  conquering  spears  impaled; 

Some  slew  in  many  a ghastly  row, 

Over  the  wide  field  to  and  fro, 

Where  our  arrows  darkened  the  morning  glow, 

And  our  rattling  javelins  hailed! 

XIV. 

Soon  round  our  front  Prince  Murrogh,* 

In  a dust-cloud  riding  came ; 

His  brows  were  grim  as  we  looked  on  him, 

And  his  fierce  eyes  shone  like  flame ; 

With  armed  hand  before  our  band 
His  mail-clad  breast  he  smote  — 

* Murrogh,  eldest  son  of  Brian,  and  heir  to  the  throne.  After  pinning 
the  Danish  Prince  Sitric  to  the  ground  with  his  sword,  and  wounding 
him  mortally,  Murrogh  was  himself  stabbed  fatally  by  Sitric,  who, 
snatching  the  dagger  from  Murrogh’s  belt,  pierced  his  side  beneath  his 
jack-piece,  or  corselet. 


158 


BALLADS. 


With  martial  ring  his  harness  rang, 

As  gallantly  to  earth  he  sprang, 

And  his  loud  voice  rose  o’er  the  battle  clang 
Like  the  brazen  trumpet’s  note ! 

XV. 

“ Brave  Dalgais  ! Meath  is  false  to  us  * — 

From  the  field  ignobly  gone; 

Think  not  of  them,  for  you  must  stem 
This  battle’s  tide  alone ; 

Bright  laurels  now  shall  deck  each  brow 
As  we  trample  down  the  Dane ; 

Rich  be  the  kite-feast  now  we’ll  spread ! ” 

And  that  mighty,  clangorous  field  of  dead 
Trembled  beneath  our  sounding  tread, 

As  we  rushed  on  the  foe  again ! 

XVI. 

We  clove  them  down  full  vengefully; 

We  smote  them  hip  and  thigh, 

While  the  morning  sun  his  course  did  run 
High  up  the  eastern  sky ; 

Still  as  he  sank,  our  good  blades  drank 
Of  their  blood  a crimson  tide, 

Till  Sitric,  pierced  by  Murrogh’s  glaive, 

With  Murrogh’s  dirk  the  death-wound  gave  — 

Till  dead  these  bravest  of  the  brave 
On  the  field  lay  side  by  side ! 

XVII. 

Then  rose  on  our  left  a tumult, 

War-cries  and  trumpets’  blare; 

So  busy  were  we,  we  could  not  see 
Who  fought  so  fiercely  there ; 

But  ever  it  rose,  like  the  sound  that  flows 
From  Burren’s  storm-beat  shore 
Of  wave-scarred,  sea-confronting  rock, 

O’er  the  javelin’s  hiss  and  the  sabre  stroke, 

O’er  the  crash  of  axe,  and  the  horseman’s  shock, 
And  the  wide-spread  battle’s  roar ! 

XVIII. 

Down  from  that  point  a horseman 
Dashed  over  friend  and  foe  — 

* It  is  said  that  Malachi,  then  only  King  of  Meath,  betrayed  Brian,  his 
conqueror,  and  drew  his  forces  off  the  field  after  the  first  onset. 


BALLADS. 


159 


Reckless  of  life,  through  the  tangled  strife, 

As  it  surged  to  and  fro, 

Till  he  gained  the  spot  where  the  Dalgais  * fought, 
With  the  whirring  javelin’s  speed  : 

I looked  on  him,  strong  Lord  of  Feale  — 

His  face  with  battle’s  rage  was  pale, 

Gory  his  sword,  gory  his  mail, 

Gory  his  steaming  steed ! 

XIX. 

“ Alas  ! alas  ! and  woe  is  me ! 

Brian  the  Great  is  slain  ! 

In  Erin’s  land  we  ne’er  shall  see 
A king  like  him  again  — 

The  soldier’s  friend,  the  dauntless  heart, 

The  giver  of  rich  meeds, 

Of  the  herds  and  flocks  of  snowy  white, 

Of  the  royal  feasts  of  gay  delight, 

Of  the  purple  robes  and  the  collars  bright, 

And  the  golden-bitted  steeds. 

xx. 

“ He  fell  as  falls  the  bravest: 

Ere  his  mighty  spirit  fled, 

Broder  the  Dane,  and  henchmen  twain, 

’Neath  his  sword  lay  stark  and  dead  — 

His  body  to  Armagh’s  shrine  he  gave, 

His  blessing  to  us  all ; 

Then  level  lance,  and  poise  the  targe, 

And  follow  me  in  one  brave  charge, 

Deep  through  them  to  the  ocean  marge, 

To  avenge  our  great  king’s  fall ! ” 

XXI. 

As  a herd  sweeps,  madly  snorting, 

Of  wild  Momonian  steeds, 

From  the  hot  ravine,  with  deafening  din, 

Through  the  marsh’s  crackling  reeds ; 

As  the  swollen  floods  rush  through  the  gorge 
Of  Lora’s  blasted  pines, 

As  the  loosened  rock  down  Ballar  Pass, 

As  the  whirlwind  through  the  autumn  grass, 

* Dalgais,  or  Dalcassians,  the  great  military  tribe  to  which  Brian  be- 
longed. 


160 


BALLADS. 


So,  thundering  loud,  one  raging  mass, 

We  burst  through  the  Danish  lines ! 

XXII. 

And  they  were  few  of  the  pirates 
Who  found  their  ships  again, 

For  the  ravens  croaked,  and  the  gray  wolves  yelled 
That  night,  o’er  their  countless  slain ; 

But  they  played  not  weak  or  tamely 
The  battle’s  dreadful  game  — 

Bed  is  each  vanquished  sword  and  hand, 

Bed  with  the  best  blood  of  our  land, 

For  many  a high  prince,  on  that  strand 
Sleeps  the  hero’s  death  of  fame ! 

XXIII. 

And  many  an  age  in  Banba,* 

When  our  bones  lie  in  the  clay, 

Shall  Banba’s  sons  and  daughters 
Tell  of  that  bloody  fray; 

Many  a sigh  shall  heave  the  bosom, 

Many  a bitter  tear  shall  fall, 

For  the  mighty  king  who  royally 
Died  with  his  chieftains  brave,  to  free 
Fair  Banba’s  isle,  from  sea  to  sea. 

From  the  Norseman’s  iron  thrall. 


BALLAD  OF  BARNAKILL.f 


By  Barnakill,  full  warm  and  bright 
Shone  the  sun  on  the  birchen  grove, 
When  out  walked  the  Lady  Una, 
Sighing  for  her  own  true  love. 


ii. 

61  My  love  so  fond,  my  knight  so  brave, 

Has  left  me  long  to  mourn  — 

* Banba,  one  of  the  ancient  names  of  Ireland. 

t In  this  ballad  are  incorporated  some  lines  and  two  or  three  verses, 
which  seem  to  be  the  rude  fragments  of  some  ancient  ballad  of  the  Pale. 


BALLADS. 


161 


I fear  by  Barrow’s  wave  he  has  found  a bloody  grave, 

O never,  never  more  to  return ! ” 

hi. 

In  Barnakill,  when  cold  and  clear, 

Shone  the  moon  on  the  birchen  grove, 

In  her  chamber  sat  Lady  Una, 

Still  sighing  for  her  own  true  love. 

IV. 

“ He  said,  this  very  night  and  hour, 

He  would  come  back  to  me ! ” 

The  bandogs  waked  and  whined,  came  a weird  sound  on 
the  wind, 

And  there  in  the  moonlight  stood  he ! 


v. 

“ My  knight,  my  love,  where  be  your  bed, 

That  the  red  mould  soils  your  mail  ? 

And  where  are  your  serving-men,  O darling?”  she  said, 
“ And  why  look  so  grimly  and  pale  ? ” 


VI. 

“ The  battle-field’s  my  cold,  cold  bed; 

There  my  slumber  is  sound  and  deep ; 

And  the  worms  are  my  serving-men,  O darling,”  he  said, 
“ To  wait  on  me  while  I am  asleep ! ” 

VII. 

“My  lord,  my  love,  I’ll  warm  thee  here 
In  my  bosom  all  the  night, 

Till  the  lively  song  of  Chanticleer 
Brings  the  gladsome  morning  light!  ” 

VIII. 

“ To  living  man,  at  break  of  morn, 

Full  blithe  that  song  may  be, 

But  its  sound  will  come  like  the  voice  of  doom 
To  part  my  love  and  me ! ” 


IX. 

“ Thy  heart  is  cold,  my  husband  dear, 
And  rayless  are  thine  eyes, 

11 


162 


BALLADS. 


Yet  I wish  for  very  love  of  thee 
That  the  morn  would  ne’er  arise ! 


x. 

“ O Chanticleer,  so  blithe  and  bold, 

Do  not  crow  until  ’tis  day, 

And  your  comb  shall  be  made  of  the  very  beaten  gold, 
And  your  wings  of  the  silver  so  gray ! ” 


XI. 

O,  cruel,  faithless  Chanticleer! 

Why  came  thy  song  so  soon? 
Alone  weeps  the  Lady  Una 

In  the  light  of  the  setting  moon ! 


SIR  DONAL. 


i. 

Afar  in  the  vales  of  green  Houra  my  heart  lingers  all  the  day 
long, 

’Mid  the  dance  of  the  light-footed  maidens,  with  the  music  of 
Ounanar’s  song, 

Where  the  steep  hills  uprise  all  empurpled  with  the  bloom  of  the 
bright  heather  bells, 

Looking  down  on  their  murmuring  daughters,  the  blue  streams 
of  Houra’s  wild  dells. 

In  the  hush  of  a calm  summer  sunset,  where  sing  these  sweet 
streams  as  they  flow, 

As  I sat  with  the  bright-eyed  young  maidens,  they  made  me  their 
bard  long  ago ; 

Then  I told  of  each  valley  some  story,  some  tale  of  each  blue 
mountain  crest, 

But  they  loved  of  all  wild  tales  I sang  them,  the  lay  of  Sir  Donal 
the  best; 

So  I’ll  sing  once  again  of  his  deeds  in  my  boyhood’s  rude  meas- 
ures and  rhymes,  — 

Then,  gentles,  all  list  to  the  story,  this  lay  of  th’  old  chivalric 
times : — 


BALLADS. 


168 


II. 

Nigh  the  shores  of  the  loud  sounding  Bregoge,  high  towering  o’er 
valley  and  wold, 

Walled  in  by  the  rough  steeps  of  Houra,  there  standeth  a gray 
feudal  hold ; 

It  is  worn  by  the  hard  hail  of  battle,  decay  is  at  work  on  its 
hill, 

Yet  it  stands  like  a sorrow-struck  Titan,  high,  lone,  and  uncon- 
querable still! 

The  green  ivy  clingeth  around  it,  the  blast  is  at  play  in  its 
halls, 

The  weasel  peeps  forth  from  its  crannies,  the  black  raven  croaks 
on  its  walls ; 

The  peasants  who  pass  in  the  even  will  hurry  their  steps  from 
its  height, 

For  they  tell  fearful  things  of  its  chambers,  and  call  it  the  Tower 
of  the  Sprite  ! * 

But  though  lone  be  its  halls,  they  rang  merry  with  wassail  and 
minstrel’s  wild  lay, 

When  it  sheltered  the  youthful  Sir  Donal,  its  lord  in  the  good 
olden  day ! 

hi. 

O,  he  was  a brave  forest  knight ! As  each  morning  upsprang 
from  the  sea, 

He  was  out  by  the  fay-haunted  streams,  with  his  falcons,  in 
woody  Fear-muighe ; 

Or  away,  far  away  ’mid  the  mountains,  with  stag-hound,  and 
bugle,  and  steed, 

O’ermatching  the  gray  wolf  in  boldness,  outstripping  the  red 
deer  in  speed ! 

And  his  heart  and  his  strong  hand  were  bravest ; when  high  rose 
the  trumpet’s  wild  strain, 

When  the  war-fires  blazed  red  on  the  hill-tops,  and  the  horse- 
men rode  hard  on  the  plain, 


* Along  the  northern  confines  of  Fear-Muighe-Feine  run  the  Houra 
mountains,  in  the  midst  of  which  the  Ounanar  River  rises,  and  flowing 
through  a magnificent  glen  — Glean  an-awr,  or  the  Valley  of  Slaughter  — 
falls  into  the  Oubeg,  or  Mulla,  below  Doneraile.  The  Bregoge,  another 
tributary  of  the  Oubeg,  has  its  source  also  in  these  mountains ; and  near 
its  banks,  a few  miles  north-east  of  Doneraile,  stands  the  ancient  Castle 
Phooka  — the  “ Tower  of  the  Sprite.” 


164 


BALLADS. 


He  was  dight  in  his  harness,  and  spurring  to  the  Desmond’s 
bright  banner  away, 

His  mountaineers  dashing  behind  him,  with  sabres  athirst  for  the 
fray ! 

In  bower  and  in  hall  he  was  welcomed,  and  the  dames  of  the  crag 
castles  brave 

Were  proud  when  he  smiled  on  their  daughters  at  eve,  by  the 
Avonmore’s  wave. 


IV. 

Tis  noon  on  the  broad  plain  of  Limerick,  and  down  by  the  calm 
Lubach’s  tide,* 

The  sunbeams  smite  hot  on  the  meadows,  and  burn  by  the  green 
forest  side ; 

And  brightly  they  glint  from  a helmet,  and  broadly  they  gleam 
from  a shield, 

Where  a knight  ridetli  up  by  the  river,  in  brave  shining  panoply 
steeled. 

Kerne  crouch  on  his  path  in  the  greenwood,  with  pikes  ready 
raised  for  a foe ; 

But  they  know  the  high  mien  of  Sir  Donal,  and  stay  for  some 
Saxon  the  blow ; 

And  the  galloglass  scowls  from  his  ambush ; but  he,  too,  remem- 
bers that  plume, 

And  wishing  good  luck  to  its  owner,  strides  back  to  his  lair  in 
the  gloom. 

But  why  rides  Sir  Donal  so  lonely  ? and  why  is  his  gladness  all 
fled  ? 

On  a field  by  Lough  Gur’s  lonely  water  the  friend  of  his  bosom 
lies  dead. 

v. 

Away,  then,  away  to  the  mountains,  he  givetli  his  war-horse  the 
rein, 

While  he  longs  for  the  clangor  of  battle  to  drown  his  dejection 
again ; 

The  blest  Hill  of  Patrick  f slopes  green  with  its  tall  Guebre  tower 
on  his  way, 

But  the  good  monk  who  waits  in  the  abbey  in  vain  looketh  out 
for  his  stay ; 

* The  crooked  or  winding  river — the  stream  that  runs  by  Kilmallock. 
t Ard  Patrick  — the  Height  of  St.  Patrick  — is  a beautiful  green  hill  at 

the  Limerick  side  of  the  Houras.  On  its  summit  is  an  ancient  church,  the 

time  of  whose  foundation  is  unknown.  Near  the  church  are  the  remains 

of  a round  tower  which  fell  nearly  half  a century  ago. 


BALLADS. 


165 


And  anon  the  black  Rock  of  the  Eagle  frowns  down  on  his  path 
by  Easmore, 

Till  he  crosseth  the  bright  Oun-na-Geeraith,  and  windeth  away 
by  its  shore. 

Now  nigh  him  Suidhe  Fein  riseth  proudly  o’er  wild  Glenisheen’s 
ancient  wood, 

And  yawns  like  a gate  in  the  mountains  Red  Shard’s  Gap  of 
conflict  and  blood ; 

As  he  turns  by  the  crags  of  Sliav  Fadlia,  and  on  by  a flat  moor- 
land side, 

Till  he  lights  nigh  a clear  fairy  fountain  at  length  by  the  Ou- 
nanar’s  tide. 

VI. 

It  is  on  a small  shrubby  islet,  with  huge  forest  cliffs  all 
around, 

Save  where  the  bright  stream  from  the  blue  hills  outleaps  with  a 
lone,  lulling  sound, 

And  it  seems  as  if  step  of  nought  human  did  e’er  on  its  low 
strand  alight; 

Yet  a lady  peers  out  from  the  thicket,  beyond  the  good  steed  of 
the  knight ! 

She  is  old,  yet  there’s  fire  in  her  dark  eye,  but  sorrow  is  stamped 
on  her  mien, 

And  she  knows  the  tall  crest  of  Sir  Donal,  and  comes  to  his  side 
from  the  screen ; 

She  waveth  her  hand  to  him  sadly ; he  follows  her  steps  by  the 
flood, 

Till  they  enter  a hut  of  thick  brambles,  concealed  in  the  dark 
spreading  wood, 

And  there,  on  a couch  of  green  fern,  an  old  dying  chieftain  is  laid, 

And  o’er  him  in  wild,  bitter  weeping,  there  bendeth  a golden- 
liaired  maid. 

VII. 

He  turns  to  the  knight  as  he  enters,  and  thus  in  weak  accents  of 
woe  : — 

“Thy  sire  was  my  friend,  good  Sir  Donal,  in  the  days  of  our 
youth  long  ago ; 

The  Saxon  hath  slaughtered  my  people  — alas  ! for  that  gloom- 
darkened  hour, 

When  he  forced  me  to  fly,  weak  and  wounded,  thus  far  from  Du 
Aragail’s  tower ! * 

* Du  Aragail,  an  ancient  castle  in  the  parish  of  Dromagh,  near  Kanturk, 

was  one  of  the  principal  seats  of  the  O’Keeffes.  Kilnamullocli,  — the 


166 


BALLADS. 


A friend,  all ! a friend  false  and  hollow,  hath  tracked  me  to  Ou- 
nanar’s  grove, 

And  he  swears  on  his  sword  to  betray  me,  or  have  this  young 
maid  for  his  love  ; 

Black  Murrogh,  stern  lord  of  Rathgogan ! soon,  soon  from  thy 
wiles  I am  free ; 

But  alas,  for  the  wife  of  my  bosom ! alas,  my  fair  daughter,  for 
thee ! ” 

He  died  on  that  eve,  and  was  borne  away  to  the  age-honored 
spires 

Of  gray  Kilnamulloch  next  noontide,  and  laid  down  to  rest  with 
his  sires. 

VIII. 

There  was  feasting  that  night  in  Ivilcoleman,  and  all  in  their 
bright  martial  gear, 

Black  Murrogh,  and  fearless  Sir  Donal,  and  many  stout  cham- 
pions are  there ; 

And  there  speaks  Sir  Donal,  uprising,  and  bends  on  black  Mur- 
rogh his  gaze  : — 

“ Ho  ! freres  of  the  feast  and  the  battle,  a tale  of  the  wild  forest 
maze ! 

As  I rode  by  the  Ounanar’s  water,  Du  Aragail’s  chieftain  I 
found ; 

He  was  driven  from  his  home  by  the  Saxon,  and  said,  ere  he  died 
of  his  wound  : 

1 A friend,  ah ! a friend  false  and  hollow,  has  tracked  me  to  Ou- 
nanar’s side,  — 

A friend  who  has  sworn  to  betray  me,  or  have  my  young  daugh- 
ter his  bride ! ’ 

By  my  faith  ! but  the  traitor  was  knightly,  to  woo  her  with  ardor 
so  brave ; 

Now,  there  lies  my  gauntlet  before  him;  thus  proof  of  his  pas- 
sion I crave ! ” 

IX. 

Then  up  starts  the  lord  of  Rathgogan,  and  fierce  is  the  flash  of 
his  eye, 

As  he  glares  on  the  dark  brows  around  him  with  bearing  defiant 
and  high  : 

“ Church  of  the  Curse,”  — the  ancient  name  of  Buttevant.  An  extremely 

wild  legend  is  connected  with  this  name.  Rathgogan  is  the  ancient  name 

of  Charleville. 


BALLADS. 


167 


“False,  knight  of  a falser  young  maiden,  thy  gauntlet  I take 
from  the  board, 

And  soon  on  thy  crest,  in  the  combat,  I’ll  prove  my  good  name 
with  my  sword ; 

For  I see  but  one  path  to  my  glory — a path  o’er  that  false  heart 
of  thine, 

But  fired  by  the  love  of  young  damsels,  but  steeled  by  the  red 
gushing  wine ; 

And  close  be  the  palisade  round  us,  and  short  be  the  distance 
between, 

"Where  a liar’s  black  life-blood  shall  poison  the  bloom  of  the  bright 
summer  green ! ” 

“And  fair  shine  the  sun,”  quoth  Sir  Donal,  “the  clear  sunny 
sheen  on  my  blade, 

When  I close  with  the  lord  of  Rathgogan,  avenging  Du  Aragail’s 
maid ! ” 

x. 

Calm  eve  on  the  fair  hills  of  Houra,  and  down  by  the  Mulla’s 
green  marge, 

The  red  beams  are  burning  in  glory  from  hauberk,  and  sabre, 
and  targe, 

And  the  warriors  are  circling  around  it,  that  smooth  listed  green 
by  the  wave, 

Where  the  two  mailed  champions  are  standing  with  keen  axe, 
and  target,  and  glaive  ! 

Flash  lances  around  them  in  brightness,  gleam  banners  along  by 
the  shore, 

Fierce  Condon’s  from  Araglin’s  water,  De  Rupe’s  from  the  towers 
of  Glenore ; 

And  the  Barry’s  wild  pennon  is  waving,  and  the  flags  of  the  chief- 
tains whose  towers 

Defy  from  their  crag-seats  the  foeman  by  Avonmore’s  gorges  and 
bowers ; 

Yet  still  the  two  champions  stand  moveless,  all  silent  and  darkly 
the  while, 

Like  the  panoplied  statues  that  frown  round  the  walls  of  some 
gray  abbey  aisle ! 


But  hark!  how  the  wild  martial  trumpets  outroll  the  fierce  sig- 
nal for  strife ! 

And  see  how  these  motionless  statues  outstart  from  their  postures 
to  life ! 


168 


BALLADS. 


The  mailed  heels  go  round  on  the  greensward,  the  mailed  hands 
ply  weapons  amain, 

Till  the  targes  are  battered  and  cloven,  and  the  axes  are  shiv- 
ered in  twain ! 

Wide  and  deep  are  the  wounds  of  Sir  Donal,  but  wider  the  gash 
of  his  foe, 

As  their  sabres  cross,  gleaming  and  clashing  — two  flames  in  the 
red  sunny  glow  — 

One  thrust  through  the  blood-spattered  hauberk,  one  stroke  by 
the  crest  waving  o’er, 

And  the  lord  of  Rathgogan  lies  fallen,  to  rise  to  the  combat  no 
more ; 

And  there,  for  a space,  swaying,  reeling,  and  faint  from  his 
wounds’  gushing  tide, 

Sir  Donal  looks  down  on  the  vanquished,  then  sinketh  to  earth 
by  his  side ! 

XII. 

They  bear  one  away  to  his  tower,  and  they  bear  one  away  stark 
and  cold; 

One  ne’er  may  awake,  and  one  waketh,  a bright,  blessed  scene 
to  behold ; 

For  the  maid  of  Du  Aragail  bendeth  above  the  dim  couch  where 
ho  lies, 

With  love  as  her  spirit  immortal,  and  joy  like  the  morn  in  her 
eyes ! 

O,  sweet  are  the  dreams  of  his  slumbers,  o’erflowing  with  fairy 
delight, 

But  sweeter  the  dreams  of  his  waking  each  day  in  the  Tower  of 
the  Sprite. 

And  now  ’tis  the  fullness  of  sumner,  — a fair  breezy  morning  in 
June,  — 

And  the  streams  of  green  Houra  are  leaping  along  with  a sweet 
gushing  tune, 

And  thy  bells,  Kilnamulloch,  are  ringing  — no  knells  of  the 
bloom-footed  hours, 

But  the  sweet  bridal  chimes  of  Sir  Donal  and  the  maid  of  Du 
Aragail’s  towers  1 


BALLADS. 


169 


THE  WELL  OF  THE  OMEN. 

i. 

At  morn  up  green  Ard-Patrick  the  Sunday  bell  rang  clear, 

And  downward  came  the  peasants  with  looks  of  merry  cheer, 

W ith  many  a youth  and  maiden  by  pathways  green  and  fair, 

To  hear  the  Mass  devoutly,  and  say  the  Sunday  prayer ; 

And  the  meadows  shone  around  them  where  the  skylarks  gay 
were  singing, 

And  the  stream  sang  songs  amid  the  flowers,  and  the  Sunday 
bell  was  ringing. 

ii. 

There  is  a well  sunk  deeply  by  old  Ard-Patrick’s  wall ; 

Within  it  gaze  the  peasants  to  see  what  may  befall : 

Who  see  not  there  their  shadows  shall  die  within  the  year ; 

Who  see  their  shadows  smiling,  O,  they’ll  have  merry  cheer ! 
There  staid  the  youths  and  maidens,  where  the  soft  green  grass 
was  springing, 

While  the  stream  sang  songs  amid  the  flowers,  and  the  Sunday 
bell  was  ringing. 

hi. 

Out  spoke  wild  Rickard  Hanlon  : “ We’ll  see  what  may  befall,”  — 
’Twas  to  young  Bride  Mac  Donnell,  the  flower  among  them 
all, — 

“ Come  see  if  ours  be  sorrow  or  merry  wedlock’s  band!  ” 

Then  took  the  smiling  maiden  all  by  the  lily  hand, 

And  there  they  knelt  together,  their  bright  looks  downward 
flinging, 

While  the  stream  sang  songs  amid  the  flowers,  and  the  Sunday 
bell  was  ringing. 


IV. 

They  looked  into  the  water : no  shadows  shone  below : 

The  dark,  dark  sign  of  evil ! Ah  ! could  it  e’er  be  so  ? 

Full  lightly  laughed  young  Rickard,  although  his  heart  was  chill, 
And  with  fair  Bride  Mac  Donnell  and  all  went  down  the  hill, 

To  hear  the  Mass  devoutly,  with  the  soft  airs  round  them  wing- 
ing, 

While  the  stream  sang  songs  amid  the  flowers,  and  the  Sunday 
bell  was  ringing. 


170 


BALLADS. 


y. 

Sweet  months,  despite  the  omen,  in  sunny  bliss  flew  o’er, 

And  sometimes  thinking  on  it  but  made  them  love  the  more; 

But  when  across  Ard-Patrick  they  sought  the  lowland  plain, 

Into  the  well’s  dark  waters  they  never  looked  again ; 

There  never  with  the  maidens  they  sat,  fair  garlands  stringing, 
While  the  stream  sang  songs  amid  the  flowers,  and  the  Sunday 
bell  was  ringing. 


VI. 

The  storm  and  flood  were  over  — they  left  us  wild  dismay, 

The  Ford’s  great  rocks  were  loosened  ’neath  Easmor’s  torrent 
gray, 

And  clasped  in  death  together  — O,  sad  the  tale  to  tell!  — 

Were  found  young  Bride  and  Pickard  drowned  by  the  Bobber’s 
Well ! 

O,  false  and  cruel  water,  so  merry  downward  flinging, 

How  canst  thou  sing  amid  the  flowers  while  the  death  bell  loud 
is  ringing? 

VII. 

From  old  Ard-Patrick’s  ruins  loud  sounds  the  piercing  keen ; 

By  the  sad  Well  of  the  Omen  a deep,  deep  grave  is  seen, 

Where  side  by  side  together  they’ve  laid  the  early  dead, 

And  the  Mass  they’ve  chanted  o’er  them,  and  the  requiem 
prayer  is  said. 

There  was  woe  and  bootless  sorrow  in  many  a bosom  clinging, 
But  the  stream  sang  songs  amid  the  flowers,  while  the  death  bell 
loud  was  ringing ! 


MARY  LOMBARD. 


My  iron  gyves  were  rusty  grown, 

So  long  I lay  in  thrall, 

Down  in  my  dungeon  dark  and  lone, 
’Neath  Kilnamulla’s  wall. 


ii. 

My  heavy  chains  at  first  were  bright, 
But  rust  had  dimmed  them  o’er, 


BALLADS. 


171 


When  an  angel  came  in  the  dead  of  night, 

And  opened  my  dungeon  door ! 

in. 

Was  never  face  so  heavenly  fair, 

As  hers  who  let  me  go, 

The  lady  of  the  sun-bright  hair, 

The  daughter  of  my  foe. 

IV. 

She  came  as  if  from  Heaven  to  me,  — 

In  the  dead  of  night  to  my  lair,  — 

And  sped  me  to  my  own  countrie, 

My  Mary  Lombard  fair ! 

v. 

When  next  where  Kilnamulla  rears 
Her  towers  now  black  and  stern, 

’Twas  hosting  with  broad  Thomond’s  spears, 
With  Murrogh  of  the  Fern.* 

VI. 

Through  Desmond’s  plains  with  vengeful  swords 
We  carried  war  and  flame, 

And  woe  to  all  the  Norman  hordes,  * 

Where’er  great  Murrogh  came. 

VII. 

And  all  around  that  fated  town 
Our  warriors  thronged  full  fain, 

Till  turret-stone  and  gate  went  down, 

Before  their  charge  amain. 

VIII. 

Like  a great  flood,  with  flame  and  blood, 

We  rushed  through  the  breach’s  bound, 

While  roof  and  spire  were  wrapped  in  fire, 
Lighting  the  carnage  round ! 


* In  the  year  1367  Murrogh  na  Ranagh,  or  Murrogh  of  the  Fern,  king  of 
Thomond,  issued  from  his  fastnesses  and  destroyed  nearly  all  the  Norman 
strongholds  in  Munster;  and,  after  proclaiming  himself  king  of  the  prov- 
ince, again  crossed  the  Shannon.  Buttevant,  or,  as  it  was  anciently  called, 
Kilnamulla,  was  burnt  and  sacked  by  his  forces  in  this  war. 


172 


BALLADS. 


IX. 

’Twas  the  gloom  of  night  on  the  far-off  height, 

’Twas  the  glare  of  hell  round  me, 

As  I stood  before  my  foeman’s  door, 

His  daughter  fair  to  see. 

x. 

My  foeman  lay  in  the  burning  way, 

His  fond  wife  dying  there, 

And  my  Mary  dear,  wild  with  woe  and  fear, 

I found  on  the  great  hall  stair. 

XI. 

I clasped  her  in  my  arms,  and  then 
Quick  bore  her  down  the  street, 

Through  the  rushing  men,  to  the  eastward  glen, 

Where  I left  my  war-horse  fleet. 

XII. 

A sudden  madness  seized  my  brain, 

And  away  I dashed,  away, 

With  my  trembling  love  towards  my  native  plain, 

By  castle  and  mountain  gray ! 

XIII. 

Kilmallock’s  wall  rose  stark  and  tall 
On  our  course  so  wild  and  fast, 

And  the  Castle  of  Brugh  frowned  grimly  through 
The  darkness  as  we  passed. 

XIV. 

At  the  morning’s  beam  fair  Shannon’s  stream 
A long  length  spread  before  : 

I cared  not  its  length,  for  love  gave  me  strength, 

And  I swam  my  war-horse  o’er ! 

xv. 

Away  again,  by  valley  and  wild  plain, 

Away  through  each  torrent’s  foam, 

Where  the  mountains  rise,  with  my  glorious  maiden  prize, 
Till  I reached  my  castled  home. 

xvi. 

One  clasp  I gave  to  my  sad  and  sorrowing  love, 

One  word  to  my  mother  said, 


BALLADS. 


173 


And  back,  my  loyalty  to  prove, 

To  Murrogh’s  host  I sped. 

XVII. 

Many  a day  and  many  a weary  night, 

And  many  a battle  tough  and  stern, 

I saw  far,  far  from  my  true  love  bright, 

With  Murrogh  of  the  Fern. 

XVIII. 

And  when  he  wore  the  crown  of  each  plain  and  town, 

To  my  home  at  length  I bore, 

But  my  mother  made  her  moan  in  its  sad  hall  alone, 

For  my  Mary  was  sleeping  evermore! 

XIX. 

O,  my  bright,  tender  flower  ever  sat  within  her  bower, 

Her  mother  and  slain  sire  to  mourn, 

Till  sorrow  quenched  love’s  light,  though  it  flamed  up  so  bright, 
And  she  died,  O,  she  died  ere  my  return ! 

xx. 

We  laid  her  in  her  grave,  where  moans  the  mournful  wave,- 
O,  my  long-loved  and  hard-earned  bride ! 

There  each  day  my  watch  I keep,  and  forever  long  to  sleep 
By  my  Mary  Lombard’s  side  ! 


THE  ENCHANTED  WAR-HORSE. 

i. 

Doon  hangs  above  the  ocean  clear, 

A tower  of  towers  the  hoarest, 

And  rears  its  gray  head,  stern  and  drear, 

O’er  inland  vale  and  forest, 

Deserted  all  for  many  a year, 

While  the  sun  shone  on  the  roses ; 

And  the  laugh  of  man  shall  never  more 
Resound  within  its  chambers  hoar, 

While  the  wave  rolls  by  with  thundering  force, 
Or  at  its  base  reposes  ; 

While  the  linnet  sings  on  the  golden  gorse, 
And  the  sun  shines  on  the  roses. 


174 


BALLADS. 


II. 

The  fairies  dance  on  Doon’s  gray  hill, 

When  the  midnight  moon  shines  brightly, 

But  they  foot  it,  too,  by  its  forest  rill, 

With  many  a prank  full  sprightly; 

They  foot  it  round,  and  dance  their  fill, 

When  the  sun  shines  on  the  roses, 

Within  its  weird-like,  forest  maze, 

Where  the  flowers  with  light  are  all  ablaze, 
Where  the  stream  along  its  glittering  course 
Full  many  a charm  discloses, 

And  the  linnet  sings  on  the  golden  gorse, 

And  the  sun  shines  on  the  roses. 

hi. 

With  light  clouds  over  Doon  arrayed 
In  summer  skies  serenest, 

The  fairies  danced  within  a glade, 

The  loneliest  and  the  greenest, 

Where  rolled  ’neath  shimmering  sun  and  shade, 
A forest  brook  the  sheenest, 

And  many  a laugh  rang  to  the  sky, 

And  many  a breeze  went  warbling  by, 

Gathering  sweet  perfumes  in  its  course 
For  all  these  fairy  noses, 

While  the  linnet  sang  on  the  golden  gorse, 

And  the  sun  shone  on  the  roses. 


IV. 

And  there  danced  Blanaid  of  the  Wood, 
And  there  danced  Maiv  the  Merry, 

And  Meergal  Ban,  the  gay  and  good, 

With  red  lips  like  a cherry, 

And  Banba,  of  the  Snowy  Hood, 

With  cheeks  like  rowan  berry, 

And  many  another  elf-maid  bright, 

And  many  a gallant  fairy  knight; 

And  loud  and  sweet  the  green  trees  o’er, 
Up  rang  their  laughter  ever, 

Where  frowned  that  castle,  grim  and  hoar, 
And  sang  the  woodland  river. 

v. 

A heavy  tramp  sounds  through  the  copse, 
Upon  their  sport  advancing, 


BALLADS. 


175 


And  now  their  gleesome  laughter  stops, 

And  now  their  merry  dancing ; 

And  treading  down  the  lusmore  tops, 

A steed  comes  outward  prancing  — 

A great,  gray  steed,  with  glossy  back, 

With  crested  mane*,  of  midnight  black, 

With  arched  neck  and  mighty  limb, 

And  bold  eyes  glittering  ever ; 

Where  frowned  that  castle,  hoar  and  grim, 

And  sang  the  woodland  river. 

VI. 

They  look  into  his  great,  black  eyes, 

That  gaze  on  them  with  wonder, 

And  now  they  talk  in  wild  surprise, 

And  now  they  pause  and  ponder ; 

At  length  a gallant  elf-knight  cries, 

“ Out  from  the  castle  yonder, 

We’ll  bring  the  armor  that  we  found 
Deep  in  the  chamber  under  ground, 

And  with  it  send  this  steed  of  might, 

A master  seeking  ever ! ” 

Where  frowned  that  castle  on  the  height, 

And  sang  the  woodland  river. 

VII. 

With  laugh  and  shout,  away  they  go, 

And  up  the  steep  rocks  clamber; 

They  heed  not  that  the  sea  below 
Lies  stretched  like  golden  amber ; 

They  were  too  busy,  far,  I trow, 

For,  from  the  haunted  chamber, 

They’ve  brought  the  armor  forth,  and  braced 
The  saddle  bright  with  silver  chased, 

The  haunch-plates,  breast-plate,  forehead  boss, 

And  rein  of  golden  glory, 

Where  the  woodland  stream  sang  through  the  moss, 
And  frowned  that  castle  hoary. 

VIII. 

They  hung  beside  the  saddle  sheen 
A helm  and  lance,  of  lances 
The  best  that  e’er  in  war  was  seen, 

Or  heard  of  in  romances ; 


176 


BALLADS. 


And  then  they  capered  round  the  green, 
And  then,  with  merry  glances, 

Upon  the  steed  strange  spells  they  laid, 
And,  dancing  round  him  in  the  glade, 

Said,  “ Go  thou  forth,  thou  gallant  horse, 
And  find  what  fate  discloses ; 

While  the  linnet  sings  on  the  golden  gorse, 
And  the  sun  shines  on  the  roses ! ” 


IX. 

The  steed  sped  down  the  forest  straight. 
Came  by  a lordly  castle, 

Where  all  were,  noon  and  night,  elate 
W ith  wine  and  roaring  wassail ; 

A jolly  knight  came  from  the  gate, 
Bedecked  with  plume  and  tassel, 

And  sprang  upon  his  back,  but  there 
Soon  went  he  flying  through  the  air, 

And  down  on  earth,  with  broken  bones. 
In  grief  and  woe  to  languish, 

And  found  that  sermons  lie  in  stones  * 

Of  bitter  pain  and  anguish ! 

x. 

Next,  by  a castle  prim  and  bare, 

That  great  steed’s  hoofs  came  clanging 
Where  rose  the  hypocritie  prayer, 

And  hymns  with  nasal  twanging; 

Its  lord  came  down  the  castle  stair, 

His  godly  bosom  banging, 

And  sprang  upon  the  horse’s  back, 

But  soon  went  prone  into  the  black 
Deep  moat,  where  oft  his  holy  steel 
Strewed  poor  malignants’  corses, 

And  found  his  hypocritie  zeal 
Was  most  unfit  for  horses! 


XI. 

By  tower  and  street,  the  country  round, 
By  many  a hall  of  pleasure, 

He  sped,  but  every  rider  found 
Wanting  in  some  sad  measure  ; 


* “ Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  everything.”—  Shakespeare, 


The  Enchanted  War  Horse. — Page  176. 


BALLADS. 


177 


One  was  a miser,  whom  he  drowned, 

With  all  his  bags  of  treasure ; 

One  was  a knave,  that  sold  his  cause, 

And  one  a bloody  tyrant  was ; 

Another  was  a false,  mean  hack, 

Of  false  men’s  views  the  ranter ; 

But  all,  as  each  one  gained  his  back, 

He  hurled  to  earth  instanter ! 

XII. 

At  length  by  lone  Cragbarna’s  side, 

A region  Ossianic, 

Where  none  but  outlaws  dared  abide, 

’Mid  horrid  rocks  volcanic  : 

As  gayly  on  the  great  steed  hied, 

Down  from  a crag  Titanic, 

A young  knight  sprang  — ’twas  John  the  Brown, 
The  banished  lord  of  Barnaloun  — 

Upon  his  back,  and  stuck  thereon 
As  firm  as  any  Persian 
That  ever  rode  beneath  the  sun, 

In  battle  or  diversion ! 

XIII. 

The  great  steed  plunged  and  reared  amain, 

To  cause  some  dire  disaster, 

And  ’cross  the  crags  did  wildly  strain, 

And  down  the  steep  gorge  faster ; 

But  every  ruse  he  tried  in  vain, 

For  faith  he’d  found  his  master ; 

He’d  found  a knight  full  brave  and  true, 

Whose  heart  no  foul  dishonor  knew, 

Whose  sword  was  drawn  to  sweep  each  curse 
Away  that  wrong  imposes, 

While  the  linnet  sang  on  the  golden  gorse, 

And  the  sun  shone  on  the  roses ! 

XIV. 

And  gayly  cried  Sir  John  the  Brown, 

As  like  a lamb,  or  tamer, 

The  steed  at  last  trode  mildly  down : 

“ O,  now  I’m  free  to  name  her,  — 

My  ladye  love  of  bright  renown,  — 

To  worship  and  to  claim  her 
12 


BALLADS. 


To  be  my  bride,  for  with  this  fine 
Brave  steed  I’ll  win  what  should  be  mine, 
My  native  hall,  my  broad  domain, 

That  every  charm  discloses, 

While  the  linnet  sings  his  merry  strain, 
And  the  sun  shines  on  the  roses ! ” 


xv. 

Then  rode  he  round  full  furiously, 

And  called  up  friend  and  vassal, 

And  drew  them  on  the  enemy 
That  held  his  native  castle ; 

And  there  all  were  eternally 
Immersed  in  wine  and  wassail, 

And  knew  not,  heard  not,  till  they  saw 
Sir  John  the  Brown  his  good  sword  draw 
Before  the  gate,  on  that  great  horse, 

To  slit  their  traitorous  noses, 

While  the  linnet  sang  on  the  golden  gorse, 
And  the  sun  shone  on  the  roses ! 

xvi.  * • 
Sir  John  the  Brown  his  home  hath  won, 

And  thrashed  the  foemen  fairly  : 

Ilis  ladye  love  of  bright  renown 
He  made  his  bride  full  early ; 

Brave  lord  and  lady  both  are  gone ; 

Their  castle  looms  all  drearly, 

A ruin  stark  and  lone,  but  still 
The  peasant  hears  upon  its  hill 
The  tramp  of  that  great  wizard  horse, 

And  will,  as  evening  closes, 

While  the  linnet  sings  on  the  golden  gorse, 
And  the  sun  shines  on  the  roses ! 


BALLADS. 


179 


SARSFIELD’S  RIDE;  OR,  THE  AMBUSH  OF 
SLIAV  BLOOM. 

The  generally  received  historical  account  of  the  exploit  related  in  the 
following  ballad  differs  in  several  points  from  the  traditionary  version. 
And  yet  the  latter  should  not  be  despised,  for  the  peasantry  of  Limerick 
and  Tipperary  have  stories  of  the  incident,  all  agreeing  with  regard  to  the 
ride  of  Galloping  O’Hogan.  The  songs  also  of  the  time  preserve  the  name 
of  that  celebrated  horseman  and  outlaw  in  connection  with  the  affair.  For 
instance,  after  mentioning  the  way  in  which  the  outlawed  inhabitants  of 
the  surrounding  country  hung  on  the  track  of  King  William’s  convoy, 
one  of  these  old  songs  represents  O’Hogan  as  saying,  — 

“ We  marched  with  bold  Lord  Lucan  before  the  break  of  day, 

Until  we  came  to  Kinmagoun  where  the  artillery  lay; 

Then  God  He  cleared  the  firmament,  the  moon  and  stars  gave  light, 
And  for  the  Battle  of  the  Boyne  we  had  revenge  that  night ! ” 

It  may  be  also  stated  that  in  every  song  and  story  of  the  time,  King 
William  is  always  nicknamed  “ Dutch  Bill,”  a cognomen  by  which  he  is 
even  to  the  present  day  remembered  in  many  parts  of  Munster. 

Part  tfjc  Jjarst. 

I. 

Come  up  to  the  hill,  Johnnie  Moran,  and  the  de’il ’s  in  the  sight 
you  will  see ; 

The  men  of  Dutch  Bill  in  the  lowlands  are  marching  o’er  valley 
and  lea ; 

Brave  cannon  they  bring  for  their  warfare,  good  powder  and 
bullets  go  Uor , 

To  batter  the  gray  walls  of  Limerick  adown  by  the  deep  Shan-* 
non  shore ! 

ii. 

They  girded  their  corselets  and  sabres  that  morning  so  glorious 
and  still, 

They  leapt  like  good  men  to  their  saddles,  and  took  the  lone 
path  to  the  hill ; 

And  deftly  they  handled  their  bridles  as  they  rode  through  each 
green,  fairy  coom, 

Each  woodland,  and  broad,  rocky  valley,  till  they  came  to  the 
crest  of  Sliav  Bloom ! 

hi. 

“Look  down  to  the  east,  Johnnie  Moran,  where  the  wings  of 
the  morning  are  spread ; 

Each  basnet  you  see  in  the  sunlight  it  gleams  on  an  enemy’s 
head; 


180  BALLADS. 

Look  down  on  their  long  line  of  baggage,  their  huge  guns  of  iron 
and  brass, 

That,  as  sure  as  my  name  is  O’Hogan,  will  ne’er  to  the  Wil- 
liamites  pass ! 

IV. 

“Spur,  then,  to  the  green  shore  of  Brosna  — see  Ned  of  the 
Hills  on  your  way  — 

Have  all  the  brave  boys  at  the  muster  by  Brosna  at  close  of  the 
day ; 

I’ll  ride  off  for  Sarsfield  to  Limerick,  and  tell  what  I’ve  seen  from 
the  hill  — 

If  Sarsfield  won’t  capture  their  cannon,  by  the  Cross  of  Kildare 
but  we  will ! ” 


v. 

Away  to  the  north  went  young  Johnnie,  like  an  arbalist  bolt  in 
his  speed, 

Away  to  the  west  brave  O’Hogan  gives  bridle  and  spur  to  his 
steed ; 

Through  the  fierce  highland  torrent  he  dashes,  through  copse 
and  down  greenwood  full  fain. 

Till  he  biddeth  farewell  to  the  mountains,  and  sweeps  o’er  the  flat 
lowland  plain ! 


VI. 

You’d  search  from  the  gray  Bock  of  Cashel,  each  side  to  the  blue 
ocean’s  rim, 

Through  green  dale,  and  hamlet,  and  city,  but  you’d  ne’er  find 
a horseman  like  him  ; 

With  his  foot  as  if  grown  to  the  stirrup,  his  knee  with  its  rooted 
hold  ta’en, 

With  his  seat  in  the  saddle  so  graceful,  and  his  sure  hand  so 
light  on  the  rein  ! 


VII. 

As  the  cloud-shadow  skims  o’er  the  meadows,  when  the  fleet- 
winged summer  winds  blow, 

By  war- wasted  castle  and  village,  and  streamlet  and  crag  doth 
he  go ; 

The  foam-flakes  drop  quick  from  his  charger,  yet  never  a bridle 
draws  he, 

Till  he  baits  in  the  hot,  blazing  noontide,  by  the  cool  fairy  well 
of  Lisbuil 


BALLADS. 


181 


VIII. 

He  rubbed  down  his  charger  full  fondly,  the  dry  grass  he  heaped 
for  its  food, 

He  ate  of  the  green  cress  and  shamrock,  and  drank  of  the  sweet 
crystal  flood ; 

He’s  up  in  his  saddle,  and  flying  o’er  wood-track  and  broad  heath 
once  more, 

Till  the  sand  ’neath  the  hoofs  of  his  charger  is  crunched  by  the 
wide  Shannon’s  shore ! 


IX. 

For  never  a ford  did  he  linger,  hut  swam  his  good  charger 
across, — 

It  clomb  the  steep  bank  like  a wolf-dog  — then  dashed  over  moor- 
land and  moss ; 

The  shepherds  who  looked  from  the  highland,  they  crossed  them- 
selves thrice  as  he  passed, 

And  they  said  ’twas  a sprite  from  Crag  Aeivil  * went  by  on  the 
wings  of  the  blast ! 

Part  tTjc  Second. 

I. 

Dutch  Bill  sent  a summons  to  Limerick  — a summons  to  open 
their  gate, 

Their  fortress  and  stores  to  surrender,  else  the  pike  and  the  gun 
were  their  fate. 

Brave  Sarsfield  he  answered  the  summons : Though  all  holy 

Ireland  in  flames 

Blazed  up  to  the  skies  to  consume  us,  we’ll  hold  the  good  town 
for  King  James  ! ” 


ii. 

Dutch  Bill,  when  he  listed  the  answer,  he  stamped,  and  he 
vowed,  and  he  swore 

That  he’d  bury  the  town,  ere  he’d  leave  it,  in  grim  fiery  ruin  and 
gore; 

From  black  Ireton’s  Fort  with  his  cannon  he  hammered  it  well 
all  the  day, 

And  he  wished  for  his  huge  guns  to  back  him,  that  were  yet  o’er 
the  hills  far  away. 

* Aeivil,  the  Fairy  Queen  of  North  Desmond. 


182 


BALLADS. 


III. 

The  soft  curfew  bell  from  Saint  Mary’s  tolled  out  in  the  calm 
sunset  air, 

And  Sarsfield  stood  high  on  the  rampart,  and  looked  o’er  the 
green  fields  of  Clare  ; 

And  anon  from  the  copses  of  Cratloe  a flash  to  his  keen  eyes 
there  came ; 

’Twas  the  spike  of  O’Hogan’s  bright  basnet  glistening  forth  in 
the  red  sunset  flame  ! . 


IV. 

Then  down  came  the  galloping  horseman,  with  the  speed  of  a 
culverin  ball, 

And  he  reined  up  his  foam -flecked  charger,  with  a gallant  gam- 
bade by  the  wall ; 

And  his  keen  eye  searched  tower,  fosse,  and  rampart  — they  lay 
all  securely  and  still,  — 

And  then  to  the  bold  lord  of  Lucan  he  told  what  he’d  seen  from 
the  hill ! 

Y. 

The  good  steed  he  rests  in  the  stable,  the  bold  rider  feasts  at  the 
board, 

But  the  gay,  laughing  revel  once  ended,  he’ll  soon  have  a feast 
for  his  sword ; 

And  now  he  looks  out  at  the  window,  where  the  moonbeams 
flash  pale  on  the  square, 

For  Sarsfield,  full  dight  in  his  harness,  with  five  hundred  bold 
troopers  is  there ! 


yi  . 

He’s  mounted  his  steed  in  the  moonlight,  and  away  from  the 
North  Gate  they  go, 

Where  the  woods  cast  their  black  spectral  shadows,  and  the 
streams  with  their  lone  voices  flow ; 

The  peasants  awoke  from  their  slumbers,  and  prayed  as  they 
swept  through  the  glen, 

For  they  thought  ’twas  the  great  Garodh  Earla,*  that  thundered 
adown  with  his  men ! 

* Garret,  the  great  Earl  of  Desmond,  who  is  still  believed  by  the  peas- 
antry to  arise  from  his  enchanted  cave  beside  Lough  Gur  in  Limerick,  on 
the  Saint  John’s  night  of  every  seventh  year,  and  sweep,  at  the  head  of  his 
mail-clad  barons  and  knights,  through  the  surrounding  country. 


BALLADS. 


183 


. VII. 

The  gray,  ghastly  midnight  was  round  them,  the  banks  they 
were  rocky  and  steep  ; 

The  hills  with  one  sullen  roar  echoed,  for  the  huge  stream  was 
angry  and  deep ; 

But  the  bold  lord  of  Lucan  he  cared  not,  he  asked  for  no  light 
save  the  moon’s, 

And  he’s  forded  the  broad,  lordly  Shannon  with  his  galloping 
guide  and  dragoons ! 

VIII. 

The  star  of  the  morning  out  glimmered  as  fast  by  Lisearley  they 
rode, 

As  they  swept  round  the  base  of  Comailte  the  sun  on  their 
bright  helmets  glowed. 

Now  the  steeds  in  a valley  are  grazing,  and  the  horsemen  crouch 
down  in  the  broom, 

And  Sarsfield  peers  out  like  an  eagle  on  the  low-lying  plains 
from  Sliav  Bloom. 

Part  tfj e 

I. 

O’Hogan  is  down  in  the  valleys,  a watch  on  the  track  of  the  foe ; 

Johnnie  Moran  from  Brosna  is  marching,  that  his  men  be  in 
time  for  a blow ; 

All  day,  from  the  bright  blooming  heather,  the  tall  lord  of  Lucan 
looks  down 

On  the  roads  where  the  train  of  Dutch  Billy  on  its  slow  march 
of  danger  is  bowne. 

ii. 

The  red  sunset  died  in  the  heavens ; night  fell  over  mountain 
and  shore; 

The  moon  shed  her  light  on  the  valleys,  and  the  stars  glimmered 
brightly  once  more ; 

Then  Sarsfield  sprang  up  from  the  heather,  for  a horse  tramp 
he  heard  on  the  waste,  — 

’Twas  O’Hogan,  the  black  mountain  sweeping,  like  a spectre  of 
night  in  his  haste  ! 


iii. 

“ Lord  Lucan,  they’ve  camped  in  the  forest  that  skirts  Bally- 
neety’s  gray  tower ; 

I’ve  found  out  the  path  to  fall  on  them,  and  slay  in  the  dread 
midnight  hour; 


184 


BALLADS. 


They  have  powder,  pontoons,  and  great  cannons  — Dhar  Dhia, 
but  those  great  guns  are  bright ! 

They  have  treasure  go  leor  for  the  taking,  and  their  watchword 
is  4 Sarsfield  ’ to-night ! ” 


IV. 

The  star  of  the  midnight  was  shining  when  the  gallant  dragoons 
got  the  word ; 

Each  sprang  with  one  bound  to  his  saddle,  and  looked  to  his  pis- 
tols and  sword ; 

And  away  down  Comailte’s  deep  valleys  the  guide  and  bold 
Sarsfield  are  gone, 

While  the  long  stream  of  helmets  behind  them  in  the  cold 
moonlight  glimmered  and  shone. 


v. 

They  staid  not  for  loud  brawling  river,  they  looked  not  for 
toglier  or  path, 

They  tore  up  the  long  street  of  Cullen  with  the  speed  of  the 
storm  in  its  wrath ; 

When  on  old  Ballyneety  they  thundered,  the  sentinel’s  challenge 
rang  clear  — 

“Ho!  Sarsfield's  the  word,”  cried  Lord  Lucan,  44  and  you’ll 
soon  find  that  Sarsfield  is  here ! ” 


VI. 

He  clove  through  the  sentinel’s  basnet,  he  rushed  by  the  side  of 
the  glen, 

And  down  on  the  enemy’s  convoy,  where  they  stood  to  their  can- 
nons like  men ; 

His  troopers,  with  pistol  and  sabre,  through  the  camp  like  a 
whirlwind  they  tore, 

With  a crash  and  a loud-ringing  war-cry,  and  a plashing  and 
stamping  in  gore ! 


VII. 

The  red-coated  convoy  they’ve  sabred,  Dutch  Bill’s  mighty  guns 
they  have  ta’en, 

And  they  laugh  as  they  look  on  their  capture,  for  they’ll  ne’er 
see  such  wonders  again ; 

Those  guns,  with  one  loud-roaring  volley,  might  batter  a strong 
mountain  down  — 

Wirristhru  for  its  gallant  defenders,  if  they  e’er  came  to  Limer- 
ick town ! 


BALLADS. 


185 


VIII. 

They  filled  them  and  rammed  them  with  powder,  they  turned 
down  their  mouths  on  the  clay, 

The  dry  casks  they  piled  all  around  them,  the  baggage  above 
did  they  lay ; 

A mine  train  they  laid  to  the  powder,  afar  to  the  greenwood  out 
thrown,  — 

“ Now  give  it  the  match ! ” cried  Lord  Lucan,  “ and  an  earth- 
quake we’ll  have  of  our  own ! ” 


IX. 

O’Hogan  the  quick  fuse  he  lighted  — it  whizzed  — then  a flash, 
and  a glare 

Of  broad  blinding  brightness  infernal  burst  out  in  the  calm  mid- 
night air ; 

A hoarse  crash  of  thunder  volcanic  roared  up  to  the  bright  stars 
on  high, 

And  the  splinters  of  guns  and  of  baggage  showered  flaming 
around  through  the  sky  ! 


x. 

The  firm  earth  it  rocked  and  it  trembled,  the  camp  showed  its 
red  pools  of  gore, 

And  old  Ballyneety’s  gray  castle  came  down  with  a crash  and  a 
roar ; * 

The  fierce  sound  o’er  highland  and  lowland  rolled  on  like  the 
dread  earthquake’s  tramp, 

And  it  wakened  Dutch  Bill  from  his  slumbers  and  gay  dreams 
that  night  in  his  camp  ! 


XI. 

Lord  Lucan  dashed  back  o’er  the  Shannon  ere  the  bright  star  of 
morning  arose, 

With  his  men  through  the  North  Gate  he  clattered,  unhurt  and 
unseen  by  his  foes  : 

Johnnie  Moran  rushed  down  from  Comailte  — not  a foe  was 
alive  for  his  blade, 

But  his  men  searched  the  black  gory  ruin,  and  the  de’il ’s  in  the 
spoil  that  they  made  ! 

* The  explosion  split  the  old  castle  of  Ballyneety,  shivering  one  half  in 

fragments  to  the  ground. 


186 


BALLADS. 


THE  DYING  WARRIOR. 


i. 

Brightly  on  the  crest  of  Darra 
Fell  the  day’s  last  golden  arrow, 

And  the  moon  smiled  radiantly, 

Calmly,  lonely,  mournfully, 

On  a leafy  dell  and  narrow, 

Opening  out  towards  green  Fear-muighe. 

ii. 

Low  young  Dermuid  there  is  lying, 
Listening  to  the  foemen  flying, 

For  the  close  and  bloody  fray 
In  the  Red  Gap  raged  all  day. 

Ah ! that  hapless  youth  is  dying 
In  the  pale  moon’s  mournful  ray. 

in. 

There  his  rushing  comrades  left  him, 

When  the  struggling  foemen  cleft  him  — 
Cleft  him  through  his  helmet  bright, 

As  he  swept  upon  their  flight  — 

Ah ! that  fatal  blow  has  reft  him 
Of  the  joy  he  hoped  that  night. 


iv. 

For  beside  his  native  forest, 

In  the  abbey  old  and  hoarest, 

Wife  he  was  that  night  to  call 
The  fairest  maid  in  cot  or  hall ; 
And  that  thought  afflicts  him  sorest, 
On  the  brink  of  bliss  to  fall ! 


v. 

“ Death,”  he  cries,  “ doth  point  his  arrow  — 
Make  my  bed  so  cold  and  narrow, 

Where  the  sunlight  falls  in  gold 
On  Glenroe’s  bright  stream  and  wold, 
’Neath  the  haunted  Peak  of  Darra, 

In  the  abbey  gray  and  old ! 


BALLADS. 


187 


VI. 

“ Thou,  thy  bridal  dress  adorning, 

When  the  war-scout  gave  the  warning,  — 
When  thou  find’st  thy  Dermuid  slain, 
Kiss  his  cold  brow  once  again,  — 

Thou  wilt  have  at  dawn  of  morning 
Face  of  woe  and  heart  of  pain ! ” 

VII. 

In  that  dell,  like  fairies  glancing, 

Wildly  the  young  fawns  are  dancing, 

And  the  limping  hares  out-tread, 

All  their  daylight  terrors  fled ; 

But  none  scares  their  bold  advancing, 
For  the  warrior  youth  is  dead ! 

VIII. 

In  that  dell,  at  morn’s  first  peeping, 

Mad  with  sorrow,  worn  with  weeping, 
Mary  bends  the  dead  above ; 

He  died  in  war  — she  soon  for  love ; 
And  side  by  side  the  twain  are  sleeping, 
’Neath  the  abbey’s  haunted  grove ! 


PETER  CROWLEY;  OR,  THE  WORTH  OF  A 
DEAD  MAN. 

“ I have  heard  some  great  warriors  say,  that  in  all  their  services,  which 
they  had  seen  abroad  in  foreign  countries,  they  never  saw  a more  comely 
man  than  an  Irishman,  or  that  cometh  more  bravely  in  his  charge.”  — 
Spenser's  View  of  Ireland . 

i. 

God  bless  you,  Peter  Crowley, 

For  the  holy  work  you  wrought; 

God  rest  your  soul  in  heaven’s  bright  bowers 
For  the  lesson  you  have  taught; 

Fair  Freedom,  to  the  end  of  time, 

Shall  fondly  point  to  it, 

That  Lesson  in  your  heart’s  best  blood 
For  trampled  nations  writ ! — 

That  in  their  struggles  to  be  free 
And  gain  their  rights  again, 


188 


BALLADS. 


One  True  Man,  dead  for  liberty, 
Is  worth  a thousand  men ! 


ii. 

The  beacon  fires  enkindled 
By  Emmet  and  by  Tone, 

Bright  have  they  glowed  on  Freedom’s  road 
To  lead  our  footsteps  on,  — 

O Martyr,  on  that  dangerous  way 
A flame  gleams  now  from  thine 
As  high  and  clear,  but  still  more  near 
To  Freedom’s  holy  shrine, 

Where  graved  above  the  gate  we  see, 

By  Freedom’s  trenchant  pen, 

“ One  True  Man,  dead  for  liberty, 

Is  worth  a thousand  men ! ” 

hi. 

’Twas  down  in  wild  Kilcluny, 

At  the  dawning  of  the  day, 

The  red-coats  circled  round  the  wood 
To  catch  their  gallant  prey, 

Young  Kelly,  and  the  brave  McClure, 

And  Crowley,  stout  and  bold,  — 

He  slept  as  sleeps  the  lion  king 
In  his  rocky  mountain  hold,  — 

Perchance  he  dreamt  that  vision  free 
Within  his  woody  den  — 

One  True  Man,  dead  for  liberty, 

Is  worth  a thousand  men ! 


IV. 

Hark ! 'twas  the  foeman’s  summons 
That  on  their  slumbers  broke, 

And  answering  quick  that  hostile  call 
The  outlaws’  rifles  spoke, 

Till  captured  Kelly  and  McClure 
Saw  fearless  Crowley  stand, 

With  a bullet  wound  on  his  forehead  fair, 
And  a broken  trigger  hand  ! 

And  they  heard  him  shout  full  lustily 
Adown  that  woody  glen, 

“ One  True  Man,  dead  for  liberty, 

Is  worth  a thousand  men ! ” 


BALLADS. 


189 


V. 

A brave  dash  at  the  foemen, 

And  through  their  frightened  ranks, 
And  down  the  shaggy  mountain  side 
To  Oun-na-Geerait’s  * banks,  — 
With  pistol  in  his  good  left  hand, 

And  the  red  blood  on  his  right ; 
There  turned  he  with  a dauntless  heart 
To  fight  his  last  brave  fight ! 

And  well  he  knew,  that  soldier  free, 
That  Irish  hero  then, 

One  True  Man,  dead  for  liberty, 

Is  worth  a thousand  men ! 


VI. 

A volley  from  the  red-coats, 

From  him  one  pistol  ball 
That  brought  a foeman  to  the  earth  — 

And  then  ’twas  silent  all. 

He  tottered  for  a moment’s  space, 

Then  fell  into  the  tide 
That  round  the  hero  foamed  and  whirled, 

With  his  heart’s  blood  crimsoned  wide. 

“ God’s  mercy  on  my  soul ! ” cried  he ; 

And  gasped  he  forth  again, 

“ One  True  Man,  dead  for  liberty, 

Is  worth  a thousand  men ! ” 

VII. 

To  the  town  upon  the  Funcheon  f 
The  hero’s  corse  they  bore, 

And  never  such  a sight  was  seen 
By  Funcheon’s  winding  shore ; 

The  women  gathered  all  around 
To  join  his  sister’s  wail, 

And  the  men  with  stern  eyes  sadly  bent 
On  the  Martyr’s  corse  so  pale. 

They  felt  that  lesson  of  the  free, 

Their  proud  hearts  warming  then, 

* The  Stream  of  the  Champion , the  old  name  of  Kilcluny  River,  never 
more  appropriate  than  now,  after  Crowley’s  death, 
f Mitchelstown. 


190 


BALLADS. 


One  True  Man,  dead  for  liberty, 

Is  worth  a thousand  men ! 

vm. 

From  the  town  upon  the  Funcheon 
On  stout  shoulders  went  his  bier, 

With  laurels  decked,  and  the  fairest  flowers 
Of  the  spring-time  of  the  year ; 

Unto  the  ancient  churchyard, 

Where  lay  his  sires  full  low, 

The  mighty  concourse  wound  along 
With  mournful  pace  and  slow,  — 

His  country’s  tyrants  shook  to  see 
The  lesson  taught  them  then, 

One  True  Man,  dead  for  liberty, 

Is  worth  a thousand  men ! 


IX. 

In  his  red  grave  lies  our  Martyr, 

With  his  glorious  laurel  crown, 

In  the  pride  of  youth,  and  manliness, 
And  unforgot  renown. 

And  could  you  see  the  looks  I saw 
Around  his  clay-cold  bed, 

With  swelling  breast  you’d  proudly  say, 
“ Old  Ireland  is  not  dead ! ” 

With  clinched  hands  you’d  cry  with  me 
In  voice  of  thunder  then, 

“ One  True  Man,  dead  for  liberty, 

Is  worth  a thousand  men ! ” 


x. 

We’ll  build  him  up  a monument 
With  Emmet,  Sheares,  and  Tone, 
And  with  all  our  county’s  martyrs, 
When  Ireland  is  our  own; 

We’ll  build  it  on  some  old  green  hill, 
Where  the  Irish  winds  shall  blow 
Their  histories  round  admiring  earth 
To  the  nations  in  their  woe ; 

And  with  our  swords  the  legend  free 
We’ll  carve  upon  it  then  — 

“ One  True  Man,  dead  for  liberty, 

Is  worth  a thousand  men ! ” 


BALLADS. 


191 


THE  SPALPEEN. 

i. 

When  comes  across  the  mountains  the  winter  of  the  year, 
With  merry  jokes  and  laughter  the  spalpeens  gay  are  here ; 
I love  the  first  of  autumn,  but  more  sweet  hallowe’en, 

For  it  brings  back  my  Johnnie,  my  rattling,  gay  Spalpeen.* 


ii. 

His  hair  is  like  the  raven  that  flies  above  Knockrue, 

And  stately  is  his  form ; his  heart  is  kind  and  true,  — 

O,  he’s  kindest,  best,  and  bravest  of  all  I’ve  ever  seen, 

And  until  death  I’ll  love  him,  my  rattling,  gay  Spalpeen ! 

hi. 

There’s  something  in  my  Johnnie  that  pains  my  secret  mind ; 
He’s  statelier  than  his  comrades,  his  manners  more  refined ; 

I fear  he’s  some  rich  rover,  fit  husband  for  a queen ; 

And  yet  I can’t  but  love  him,  my  rattling,  gay  Spalpeen ! 


IV. 

The  first  night  that  I met  him,  I found  him  fond  and  leal ; 

I took  him  for  my  partner,  and  tripped  a mazy  reel,  — 

It  was  the  “ New-mown  Meadows  ” and  then  the  light  Moneen  f 
We  danced  — until  I loved  him,  my  rattling,  gay  Spalpeen! 


v. 

The  leaves  of  dying  autumn  by  chilling  winds  were  tost, 

The  corn  was  stacked  securely,  the  hills  were  gray  with  frost, 
When  by  the  turf-fire  blazing,  were  met  at  Hallowe’en 
The  farmers’  sons  and  daughters,  and  many  a gay  Spalpeen. 


VI. 

The  old  man  in  the  corner  sat  in  his  elbow-chair; 

At  all  his  jokes  the  laughter  rose  free  from  grief  or  care ; 

* A wandering  laboring  man.  The  circumstance  related  in  the  ballad 
happened  in  the  county  Limerick.  It  was  not  at  all  an  uncommon  thing 
for  wild  young  sons  of  the  higher  class  of  farmers  to  go  off  on  their  adven- 
tures, in  the  palmy  days  of  potato-digging,  with  the  spalpeens;  and  many 
a wild  prank  they  played  in  their  peregrinations. 

t Moneen , a kind  of  jig  — the  wildest,  most  athletic,  and  spirited  of  all 
the  Irish  dances. 


192 


BALLADS. 


The  Bean-a-thee  * sat  smiling,  and  said  she  ne’er  had  seen 
A dancer  like  young  Johnnie,  the  rattling,  gay  Spalpeen. 

VII. 

They’ve  laughed  round  many  an  apple,  they’ve  burned  the  nuts 
in  glee, 

“ And  some  will  soon  get  married,  and  some  will  sail  the  sea!  ” 
They’ve  danced  for  th’  ancient  piper,  they’ve  joked  and  sung 
between, 

And  told  their  wondrous  legends,  each  rattling,  gay  Spalpeen ! 

VIII. 

Then  Johnnie  took  the  daughter,  the  eldest,  by  the  hand,  — 

It  was  his  own  Bawn  Ellen,  the  fairest  in  the  land; 

He  led  her  towards  her  parents,  with  fond  and  manly  mien, 
While  all  stood  hushed  around  him,  the  rattling,  gay  Spalpeen! 

IX. 

“ I’ve  come  across  the  mountains  far,  far  from  home,  to  find 
A wife  above  all  others,  both  simple,  fair,  and  kind; 

She’s  standing  now  beside  me,  the  loveliest  I have  seen ! ” 

Up  spoke,  with  manly  bearing,  the  rattling,  gay  Spalpeen. 


x. 

“ I know  she’s  good  and  constant  — for  me  would  lose  her  life ; 

I have  a home  to  give  her,  and  ask  her  for  my  wife ! ” 

He’s  doffed  the  old  gray  garment  — before  them  all  is  seen 
The  lord  of  many  a town-land,  that  rattling,  gay  Spalpeen ! 

XI. 

Old  Father  James  came  early,  and  blessed  the  loving  pair; 

She’s  off  with  her  dear  bridegroom  towards  Kerry’s  hills  so  fair; 
O’er  many  a fertile  valley  she  reigns  just  like  a queen, 

Loving,  and  loved  by,  Johnnie,  her  rattling,  gay  Spalpeen! 


* Bean-a-thee , the  woman  of  the  house. 


BALLADS. 


193 


THE  SACK  OF  DUNBUI.* 

A.  D.  1602. 


I. 

They  who  fell  in  manhood’s  pride, 

They  who  nobly  fighting  died, 

Fade  their  memories  never,  never; 

Theirs  shall  be  the  deathless  name, 

Shining  brighter,  grander  ever 
Up  the  diamond  crags  of  fame ! 

Time  these  glorious  names  shall  lift 
Up  from  sun-bright  clift  to  clift, 

Upward!  to  eternity! 

The  godlike  men  of  brave  Dunbui! 

ii. 

Glorious  men  and  godlike  men, 

Well  they  stemmed  the  Saxon  then, 

When  he  came  with  all  his  powers, 

Over  river,  plain,  and  sea, 

’Gainst  the  tall  and  bristling  towers 
Of  the  Spartan-manned  Dunbui  — 

Traitor  Gael  and  Saxon  churl, 

Burning  in  their  wrath  to  hurl 
Ruin  on  the  bold  and  free 
Warrior  men  of  brave  Dunbui. 

m. 

Thomond  with  his  traitors  came, 

Carew  breathing  blood  and  flame ; 

First  he  sent  his  message  in 

To  the  Southern  gunsmen  three, 

* The  Castle  of  Dunboy,  or  Dunbui,  is  situated  on  the  shore  of  Bantry 
Bay,  opposite  Beare  Island.  It  belonged  to  O’Sullivan  Beare,  and  was 
the  great  military  depot  of,  and  the  last  fortress  that  held  out  for,  the 
Catholics  of  the  South  in  the  year  1602.  It  was  defended,  almost  success- 
fully, in  the  summer  of  that  year,  by  one  hundred  and  forty-six  men,  un- 
der their  commander,  Captain  Richard  Mac  Geoghegan,  against  an  army 
of  nearly  six  thousand  English,  commanded  by  President  Carew.  Every 
man  of  the  one  hundred  and  forty-six,  together  with  their  heroic  com- 
mander, fell  in  its  defence,  except  nine  or  ten  who  laid  down  their  arms  on 
condition  of  their  getting  quarter,  and  were  hanged  a few  minutes  after- 
wards.— Vide  Mac  Geoghegan , and  Annals  of  the  Four  Masters , &c. 

13 


194 


BALLADS. 


Message  black  as  Hell  and  sin, 

Sin  and  Satan  e’er  could  be ; 
Would  they  trusting  freres  betray. 
Would  they  this  for  golden  pay? 
Demon,  no ! foul  treachery 
Never  dwelt  in  strong  Dunbui, 


IV. 

Onward  then  that  sunny  June, 

On  they  came  in  the  fiery  noon, 

On  where  frowned  the  stubborn  keep. 

O’er  the  rock-subduing  flood, 

First  they  took  Beare’s  island  steep, 

And  drenched  its  crags  in  helpless  blood. 

Nought  could  save  — child’s,  woman’s  tears  — 

Curse  upon  their  cruel  spears ! 

O,  that  sight  was  Hell  to  see, 

By  thy  bristling  walls,  Dunbui! 

v. 

Nearer  yet  they  crowd  and  come, 

With  taunting  and  yelling,  and  thundering  drum, 

With  taunting  and  yelling  the  hold  they  environ, 

And  swear  that  its  towers  and  defenders  must  fall, 
While  the  cannon  are  set,  and  their  death-hail  of  iron 
Crash  wildly  on  bastion,  and  turret,  and  wall ; 

And  the  ramparts  are  torn  from  their  base  to  their  brow  — 
Ho ! will  they  not  yield  to  the  murderers  now  ? 

No  ! its  huge  towers  shall  float  over  Cleena’s  bright  sea, 
Ere  the  Gael  prove  a craven  in  lonely  Dunbui. 

VI. 

Like  the  fierce  god  of  battle  Mac  Geoghegan  goes 
From  rampart  to  wall,  in  the  face  of  his  foes ; 

Now  his  voice  rises  high  o’er  the  cannons’  fierce  din, 
Whilst  the  taunt  of  the  Saxon  is  loud  as  before, 

But  a yell  thunders  up  from  his  warriors  within, 

And  they  dash  through  the  gateway,  down,  down  to  the 
shore. 

With  their  chief  rushing  on,  like  a storm  in  its  wrath, 

They  sweep  the  cowed  Saxon  to  death  in  their  path ; 

Ah ! dearly  he’ll  purchase  the  fall  of  the  free, 

Of  the  lion-souled  warriors  of  lonely  Dunbui ! 


BALLADS. 


195 


VII. 

Leaving  terror  behind  them,  and  death  in  their  train, 

Now  they  stand  on  their  walls  ’mid  the  dying  and  slain, 

And  the  night  is  around  them  — the  battle  is  still  — - 
That  lone  summer  midnight,  ah ! short  is  its  reign  ; 

Tor  the  morn  springeth  upward,  and  valley  and  hill 
Fling  back  the  fierce  echoes  of  conflict  again. 

And  see  how  the  foe  rushes  up  to  the  breach, 

Towards  the  green,  waving  banner  he  yet  may  not  reach, 
For  look  how  the  Gael  flings  him  back  to  the  sea, 
From  the  blood-reeking  ramparts  of  lonely  Dunbui ! 

VIII. 

Night  cometh  again,  and  the  white  stars  look  down 
From  the  hold  to  the  beach,  where  the  batteries  frown ; 
Night  cometh  again,  but  affrighted  she  flies, 

Like  a black  Indian  queen,  from  the  fierce  panther’s  roar, 
And  morning  leaps  up  in  the  wide-spreading  skies, 

To  its  welcome  of  thunder  and  flame  evermore ; 

For  the  guns  of  the  Saxon  crash  fearfully  there, 

Till  the  walls,  and  the  towers,  and  the  ramparts  are  bare, 

And  the  foe  make  their  last  mighty  swoop  on  the  free, 
The  brave-hearted  warriors  of  lonely  Dunbui ! 

IX. 

Within  the  red  breach  see  Mac  Geoghegan  stand, 

With  the  blood  of  the  foe  on  his  arm  and  his  brand ; 

And  he  turns  to  his  warriors,  and  “ Fight  we,”  says  he, 
“For  country,  for  freedom,  religion,  and  all : 

Better  sink  into  death,  and  forever  be  free, 

Than  yield  to  the  false  Saxon’s  mercy  and  thrall ! ” 

And  they  answer,  with  brandish  of  sparth  and  of  glaive, 
“Let  them  come  : we  will  give  them  a welcome  and  grave; 
Let  them  come ; from  their  swords  could  we  flinch, 
could  we  flee, 

When  we  fight  for  our  country,  our  God,  and  Dunbui  ? ” 

x. 

* 

They  came,  and  the  Gael  met  their  merciless  shock  — 

Flung  them  backward  like  spray  from  the  lone  Skellig  rock ; 
But  they  rally,  as  wolves  springing  up  to  the  death 
.Of  their  brother  of  famine,  the  bear  of  the  snow  — 

He  hurls  them  adown  to  the  ice-fields  beneath, 

Rushing  back  to  his  dark  norland  cave  from  the  foe ; — 


196 


BALLADS. 


So  up  to  the  breaches  they  savagely  bound, 

Thousands  still  thronging  beneath  and  around, 

Till  the  firm  Gael  is  driven  — till  the  brave  Gael 
must  flee 

In,  into  the  chambers  of  lonely  Dunbui ! 

XI. 

In  chamber,  in  cellar,  on  stairway  and  tower, 

Evermore  they  resisted  the  false  Saxon’s  power ; 

Through  the  noon,  through  the  eve,  and  the  darkness  of 
night, 

The  clangor  of  battle  rolls  fearfully  there, 

Till  the  morning  leaps  upward  in  glory  and  light; 

Then,  where  are  the  true-hearted  warriors  of  Beare? 
They  have  found  them  a refuge  from  torment  and  chain : 
They  have  died  with  their  chief,  save  the  few  who  remain, 
And  that  few,  O fair  Heaven  ! on  the  high  gallows  tree 
They  swing  by  the  ruins  of  lonely  Dunbui ! 

XII. 

Long,  long  in  the  hearts  of  the  brave  and  the  free, 

Live  the  warriors  who  died  in  the  lonely  Dunbui  — 

Down  Time’s  silent  river  their  fair  names  shall  go, 

A light  to  our  race  towards  the  long-coming  day; 

Till  the  billows  of  time  shall  be  checked  in  their  flow, 

Can  we  find  names  so  sweet  for  remembrance  as  they? 
And  we  will  hold  their  memories  forever  and  aye, 

A halo,  a glory  that  ne’er  shall  decay ; 

We’ll  set  them  as  stars  o’er  Eternity’s  sea, 

The  bright  names  of  the  warriors  who  fell  at  Dunbui ! 


CROSSING  THE  BLACKWATER. 

A.  D.  1603. 


I. 

We  stood  so  steady, 
All  under  fire, 

We  stood  so  steady, 
Our  long  spears  ready 
To  vent  our  ire  — 


BALLADS, 


To  dash  on  the  Saxon, 
Our  mortal  foe, 

And  lay  him  low 
In  the  bloody  mire  ! 


ii. 

’Twas  by  Blackwater, 

When  snows  were  white, 
’Twas  by  Blackwater, 

Our  foes  for  the  slaughter 
Stood  full  in  sight ; 

But  we  were  ready 
With  our  long  spears, 

And  we  had  no  fears 
But  we’d  win  the  fight. 

hi. 

Their  bullets  came  whistling 
Upon  our  rank, 

Their  bullets  came  whistling, 
Their  spears  were  bristling 
On  th’  other  bank  : 

Yet  we  stood  steady, 

And  each  good  blade, 

Ere  the  morn  did  fade, 

At  their  life-blood  drank. 


IV. 

“ Hurrah  ! for  Freedom  ! ” 
Came  from  our  van, 

“ Hurrah  ! for  Freedom  ! 

Our  swords  — we’ll  feed  ’em 
As  best  we  can  — 

With  vengeance  we’ll  feed  ’em 
Then  down  we  crashed, 
Through  the  wild  ford  dashed, 
And  the  fray  began ! 

v. 

Horses  to  horses, 

And  man  to  man  — 

O’er  dying  horses, 

And  blood  and  corses, 
O’Sullivan, 


198 


BALLADS. 


Our  general,  thundered, 

And  we  were  not  slack 
To  slay  at  his  back 
Till  the  flight  began. 

VI. 

O,  how  we  scattered 
The  foemen  then  — 
Slaughtered  and  scattered, 

And  chased  and  shattered, 

By  shore  and  glen  ; — 

To  the  wall  of  Moyallo, 

Pew  fled  that  day,  — 

Will  they  bar  our  way 
When  we  come  again? 

VII. 

Our  dead  freres  we  buried,  — 
They  were  but  few,  — 

Our  dead  freres  we  buried 
Where  the  dark  waves  hurried, 
And  flashed  and  flew  : 

O ! sweet  be  their  slumber 
Who  thus  liave  died 
In  the  battle’s  tide, 

Inisfail,  for  you ! 


THE  'BATTLE  OF  THE  RAVEN’S  GLEN  * 

A.  D.  1603. 


I. 

From  his  turrets  that  look  to  the  silver  Kinmera, 

From  the  halls  of  his  splendor  by  Bantry  and  Bearra, 

With  his  band  of  brave  warriors,  O’Sullivan  bore  him, 

Till  the  mountains  of  Limerick  rose  darkly  before  him ; 

* O’Sullivan,  Prince  of  Bearre  and  Bantry,  during  his  flight  to  Tyrone, 
in  the  winter  of  1603,  was  attacked  by  the  De  Barrys  of  Buttevant,  with 
the  septs  of  the  surrounding  baronies,  in  the  mountains  of  Ballagh  Abhra, 
now  Ballyhoura.  He  defeated  them  with  great  slaughter,  as  he  did  all 
that  came  in  his  way  during  that  memorable  flight,  and  encamped  for  three 
days  and  nights  in  the  scene  of  the  battle,  the  Haven’s  Glen,  near  the  old 
church  of  Ardpatrick. 


BALLADS. 


199 


There  he  camped  ’mid  the  rocks,  where  the  deep  pools  were  paven 
By  the  white  stars  of  night,  in  the  Glen  of  the  Raven ! 

ii. 

In  that  glen  was  no  sound,  save  the  murmur  of  fountains, 

And  the  moonbeams  were  silvering  the  thunder-split  mountains, 
When  a horsertramp  rang  wildly  from  Ounanar’s  water, 

Rolling  up  from  the  gorge  of  the  dark  Vale  of  Slaughter, 

And  the  rider  ne’er  reined  till  his  long  plume  was  waven 
By  the  breezes  that  sighed  through  the  Glen  of  the  Raven ! 

in. 

Up  sprang  to  their  saddles  the  chieftains  around  him, 

And  they  asked  where  the  foe  ’mid  the  forests  had  found  him; 
For  they  knew  he  had  passed  through  the  battle’s  fierce  labor, 
From  the  foam  o’er  his  steed  and  the  blood  on  his  sabre, 

While  the  rocks  with  the  hoofs  of  their  chargers  were  graven, 
As  they  pranced  into  lines  ’mid  the  Glen  of  the  Raven ! 

IV. 

’Twas  the  scout  of  lone  Bregog  : he’d  heard  in  the  gloaming 
Fierce  yells  o’er  that  wild  torrent’s  thunder  and  foaming, 

Then  a dash,  and  a roar,  and  a rushing  did  follow, 

For  the  foe  burst  around  him  from  moorland  and  hollow ; 

But  a road  to  his  chief  through  their  ranks  he  had  claven  — 

Now  he  stood  by  his  side  in  the  Glen  of  the  Raven! 

v. 

Up  started  Black  Hugh  from  his  couch  in  the  fern, 

The  outlaw  of  Dara,  and  Brona  the  stern ; 

“ There’s  a passage,”  he  said,  “ over  Ounanar’s  water,* 

Where  Clan  Morna  of  old  were  defeated  with  slaughter ; 

There  bide  we  the  steps  of  the  traitor  and  craven, 

And  he  ne’er  shall  come  down  through  the  Glen  of  the  Raven ! ” 

vi. 

The  ambush  was  set  in  the  Passage  of  Lightning, 

And  now  in  the  moonlight  sharp  weapons  came  brightening, 

The  lance  of  the  Saxon,  from  Mulla  and  Mallow, 

And  the  pike  of  the  kern,  from  the  wilds  of  Duhallow  — 

* There  is  a tradition  that  the  Clan  Morna  were  defeated  here  by  the 
Clan  Baskin;  hence  the  name  of  the  glen  — Glenanar,  or  the  Valley  of 
Slaughter.  There  is  a ford  across  this  glen,  near  its  upper  extremity, 
called  Aha  Suiilish,  or  the  Ford  of  the  Light.  Mulla,  the  Aubeg,  a 
beautiful  stream  flowing  by  Buttevant  and  Doneraile. 


200 


BALLADS. 


Soon  they  clashed  with  the  swords  of  the  men  of  Berehaven, 
Till  the  echoes  rolled  back  through  the  Glen  of  the  liaven ! 

VII. 

But  back  was  the  ambush  now  scattered  and  driven  — 

Yet  the  ranks  of  their  foe  were  as  fearfully  riven ! 

And  onward,  and  round  them,  the  foemen  came  pouring, 
With  the  wild  torrent's  speed,  and  its  strength  and  its  roaring, 
Till  the  ambush  were  swept  where  the  Druid  had  graven 
His  god  on  the  crags,  by  the  Glen  of  the  ltaven ! 

VIII. 

Then  O’Sullivan  burst,  like  the  angel  of  slaughter, 

On  the  foe  by  the  current  of  Geerath’s  wild  water, 

And  the  brave  men  of  Cork,  and  of  Kerry’s  wild  regions, 
Were  his  rushing  destroyers,  his  death-dealing  legions  — • 
And  onward  they  rode  over  traitor  and  craven, 

Whose  bones  long  bestrewed  the  lone  Glen  of  the  Raven! 


IX. 

All  silent  again  over  forest  and  mountain, 

Save  the  voice  in  that  gorge  of  Oiseen’s  ancient  fountain; 
While  O’Sullivan’s  crest,  with  its  proud  eagle  feather, 
And  broadswords  and  pikes  glitter  now  from  the  heather; 
For  where  the  dark  pools  with  the  white  stars  are  paven, 
Secure  rests  the  clan  in  the  Glen  of  the  Raven ! 


MAUD  OF  DESMOND. 


i. 

Maud  of  Desmond  ne’er  again, 

Ne’er  again  shall  wake  to  love : 

She  hath  tied  from  grief  and  pain 

Away  to  Heaven’s  bright  fields  above  — 

Never  more  shall  wake  to  love, 

Dreams  a knight  by  a torrent  narrow; 

’Tis  far  down  in  the  summer  grove, 

By  the  dancing  tide  of  the  murmuring  Carrow. 

ii. 

Who  is  he,  so  fraught  with  pain, 

That  dreams  ’neath  summer  branches  there? 


BALLADS. 


201 


The  dark-haired  knight  of  Castlemain, 

Of  the  stalwart  frame  and  the  stately  air. 

His  brow  is  clouded  now  with  care ; 

They  pierce  his  heart,  these  dreams,  and  harrow, 
And  lie  starteth  up  from  his  mossy  lair 

By  the  dancing  tide  of  the  murmuring  Carrow. 

hi. 

Maud  of  Desmond  loved  him  true, 

But,  ah,  her  princely  father  smiled 
On  a stranger  lord,  who  came  to  woo 
That  bonnie  maid  so  pure  and  mild. 

Grim  was  the  smile  the  young  knight  smiled ; 

This  touched  his  heart  like  a poisoned  arrow, 

As  he  dashed  away  on  his  charger  wild 

From  the  dancing  tide  of  the  murmuring  Carrow ! 


IY. 

Maud  of  Desmoud  makes  her  moan 

For  her  hapless  love  in  her  native  bowers : 

The  grand  eve  from  its  golden  throne 
Is  marshalling  its  crimson  powers  : 

The  fields  beneath  are  starred  with  flowers, 

The  stream  runs  calm  where  the  aspens  quiver; 
It  is  where  Crom’s  embattled  towers 
Are  mirrored  in  the  Maig’s  bright  river. 


v. 

She  sees  a knight  come  from  the  West 
Down  the  woody  valley  in  fiery  speed, 

And  well  she  knows  his  helmet  crest, 

And  the  stately  step  of  his  gallant  steed ; 

It  is  her  own  true  knight,  I rede, 

That  comes  his  loving  vows  to  give  her, 

And  he  sits  beside  her  in  the  mead, 

That  summer  mead  by  the  Maig’s  bright  river. 


VI. 

And  soon  the  >oung  knight’s  vows  are  told, 

And  soon  he  turns  to  the  hills  away : 

But  who,  advancing  from  the  wold, 

Bars  his  path  to  their  summits  gray  ? 

It  is  the  stranger  lord,  — all  day 

He’d  chased  the  roe  where  the  wild  woods  quiver 


202 


BALLADS. 


To  the  bugle’s  note  and  the  staghound’s  hay, 

In  the  summer  dells  by  the  Maig’s  bright  river. 

VII. 

He  stands  within  the  woodland  path, 

Glowering  grim  on  the  western  knight, 

And  meeting  in  their  hate  and  wrath, 

They  close  in  stern  and  deadty  tight; 

There,  in  the  reddening  sunset  light, 

Their  keen  swords  into  fragments  shiver, 

And  they  draw  their  daggers  sharp  and  bright 
For  that  lady’s  love,  by  the  Maig’s  deep  river. 

VIII. 

Full  short  and  deadly  is  the  strife : 

The  stranger  lord  is  down,  and  there, 

With  outstretched  hands,  he  begs  for  life,  — 

The  young  knight  listens  to  his  prayer, 

And  speaks  with  a calm  and  lordly  air : 

“ Ho  ! take  thy  life,  but  shun  the  giver, 

Shun  the  paths  of  this  lady  fair 

Forevermore  by  the  Maig’s  bright  river ! ” 


IX. 

“ By  the  towers  of  Crom  ! ” Earl  Desmond  cries, 
For  he  saw  the  strife  from  his  castle  wall  — 

“ Such  valor  still  my  heart  must  prize, 

Till  death  upon  its  throbbings  fall; 

Ho  ! spread  the  banquet  in  the  hall ; 

The  brave  must  have  their  meed  forever ! ” 
And  he  brings  the  knight  to  his  festival, 

In  castled  Crom,  by  the  Maig’s  bright  river ! 


x. 

There  was  a mighty  feast  that  e’en, 

A bridal  train  next  morning  tide, 

And  gladsome  was  the  young  knight’s  mien 
With  Maud  of  Desmond  at  his  side; 

And  O,  she  was  a happy  bride, 

With  all  that  power  and  love  could  give  her, — 
The  fairest  bride  ’mid  that  region  wide, 

In  castled  Crom  by  the  Maig’s  bright  river ! 


BALLADS. 


203 


TYRRELL’S  PASS. 

A.  D.  1579. 


• i. 

By  the  flowery  banks  of  Inny  the  burning  sunset  fell, 

In  many  a stream  and  golden  gleam  on  hill,  and  mead,  and  dell, 

And  from  thy  shores,  bright  Ennel,  to  the  far-off  mountain  crest, 

O’er  plain  and  leafy  wildwood  there  was  peace  and  quiet  rest. 

O,  sunset  is  the  sweetest  of  all  the  hours  that  be 

For  musing  lone,  or  tale  of  love,  by  glen  or  forest  tree ; 

But  its  radiance  bringeth  saddening  thoughts  to  him  whose  good 
right  hand 

Must  guard  his  life  in  the  coming  strife  ’gainst  the  foe  of  his 
fatherland ; 

For  he  knows,  when  thinking  lonely  by  his  small  tent  on  the 
plain, 

The  glories  of  the  sinking  sun  he  ne’er  may  see  again ! 


ii. 

Brave  Tyrrell  sat  that  summer  eve  amid  the  forest  hills 
With  Captain  Owen  at  his  side,  by  Inny’s  fountain  rills  — 

Brave  Tyrrell  of  the  flying  camps,  and  Owen  Oge  of  Cong — - 
And  round  them  lay  their  warriors  wild  the  forest  glade  along. 
Four  hundred  men  of  proof  they  were,  these  warriors  free  and 
bold ; 

In  many  a group  they  sat  around  the  green  skirts  of  the  wold ; 
Some  telling  of  their  early  loves,  and  some  of  mighty  deeds, 

In  regions  wide  by  Shannon  side,  in  Galien  of  the  steeds  — 
Some  cursing  the  Invader’s  steps,  and  wishing  for  the  fray, 
That  they  might  sate  their  burning  hate  ere  the  close  of  that 
bright  day. 

in. 

Ah ! well  and  deeply  they  might  hate  the  dark  Invader  then ; 

His  steps  were  seen  in  valley  green,  in  fertile  plain  and  glen ; 
The  gory  field,  the  rifled  town,  the  hamlet  burned  and  lone,  — 
These  were  the  marks  by  which  he  made  his  demon  footsteps 
known ! 

He  came  with  all  his  legions  in  their  new-made  light  and  zeal,  — 
He  came  with  robber  heart  and  hand  and  with  the  murderer’s 
steel ; 

He  came  to  root  the  ancient  faith  from  out  their  native  land, 
And  plant  his  godless  temples  where  her  fanes  were  wont  to 
stand  — 


204 


BALLADS. 


He  came  to  sweep  their  race  away,  in  hatred  hot  and  keen, 

That  future  lands  might  never  know  where  such  a race  had 
been ! 


IV. 

The  sun  had  set  upon  their  camp,  the  stars  were  burnifig  bright, 
All,  save  the  chief  and  Owen  Oge,  were  sleeping  in  their  light; 
And  they  sat  downward  where  the  stream  was  singing  its  deep 
song, 

Planning  fierce  raid  and  foray  bold  that  starry  twilight  long. 

“ By  my  good  faith,”  said  Tyrrell,  “ we  have  wandered  far  and 
wide, 

And  on  no  foe,  still,  high  or  low,  our  good  swords  have  we  tried; 
There’s  many  a keep  around  us  here,  and  many  a traitor  town, 
And  we  will  have  a town,  or  keep,  before  two  suns  go  down ! ” 
Said  Owen  Oge,  “No!  Heaven  send  our  banded  foemen  here, 

A pleasant  fight  in  the  cool  of  night,  ’neatli  the  starlight  still  and 
clear ! ” — 

v. 

With  flashing  sabres  to  their  feet  both  warriors  instant  sprang, 
And  down  the  little  streamlet’s  bed  their  challenge  fiercely 
rang ! — 

They’d  heard  a sound  beside  the  stream,  as  if  some  forest  bird, 
Awakening  from  his  twilight  dreams  amid  the  leaves  had  stirred; 
Another  stir  like  the  stealthy  step  of  a wolf  from  out  his  lair, 
And  their  trusty  spy  of  the  falcon  eye  stood  right  before  them 
there ! 

“The  foe,  with  Baron  Trimblestown  high  boasting  at  their  head, 
Will  find  ye  here  in  these  green  glades  at  morning  light,”  he 
said, 

Then  vanished  silent  as  he  came  beneath  the  forest  shade, 

And  the  clank  of  sabres  followed  him  on  his  pathway  through 
the  glade. 

VI. 

For  his  comrades  at  their  leader’s  call  beside  the  streamlet’s 
bank 

Were  filing  from  their  ferny  beds  in  many  a serried  rank, 

And  now  along  their  ordered  lines  Fertullagh’s  accents  came : 

“ The  foeman  o’er  our  native  fields  speeds  down  with  sword  and 
flame ; 

We’ll  meet  him  as  we  ever  met,  — the  same  red  welcome  still,  — 
W e’ll  meet  him  in  the  eastward  pass,  and  sweep  him  from  the 
hill!” 


BALLADS. 


205 


They  gained  that  pass  ere  morning  leapt  above  the  eastern  wave, 
And  half  his  band  to  Owen  Oge  the  hardy  chieftain  gave  : 

“ Now  lie  ye  here  in  ambush  close  till  we  may  turn  below, 

And  when  ye  hear  my  trumpet  call,  spring  out  upon  the  foe ! ” 

VII. 

There  came  no  sound  fron*  that  deep  pass,  — e’en  from  the  moun- 
tain fern 

No  deep  breath  of  the  gallowglass,  or  whispering  of  the  kern,  — 
No  sounding,  save  the  raven’s  voice  around  the  jutting  crags, 
Hoarse  croaking  for  the  morrow’s  feast  upon  their  flinty  jags. 
And  now  along  the  mist-clad  hills  out  shone  the  morning  ray 
On  Barnwell’s  bright  and  serried  files  all  burning  for  the  fray; 

A thousand  men  of  might  they  were  from  fat  Meath’s  fertile 
plain, 

And  when  they  saw  Fertullagh’s  files  they  laughed  in  high  dis- 
dain — 

“Two  hundred  men  to  stem  our  charge!  We’ll  chase  them  till 
they  stand ! ” 

Then  poured  them  in  to  that  deep  glynn  upon  the  flying  band. 

VIII. 

Now  Tyrrell  wheels  his  warriors  round,  out  rings  his  trumpet 
note ; 

’Tis  answered  by  the  drum’s  deep  sound  from  the  gorge’s  hollow 
throat ; 

The  frighted  wolf  leaps  up  the  hill : “ Ha,  ha ! ” the  ravens  shriek, 
“ We’ll  soon  have  food  for  each  famished  brood  — rider  and  war- 
horse  sleek ! ” 

And  down  like  wolves  from  their  forest  glades  on  a herd  of  star- 
tled deer, 

The  brave  four  hundred  fiercely  rush  on  the  foeman’s  .van  and 
rere ! 

The  kerne  go  darting  in  the  first,  with  their  guns  and  gleaming 
pikes,  — 

Ah!  woe  the  day  for  the  struggling  foe  where’er  that  weapon 
strikes ! — 

The  giant  gallowglass  strides  down  with  vengeance  in  his  eye, 
Wild  yelling  out  his  charging  shout  like  a thunder-clap  on  high! 

IX. 

Now  up  the  woody  mountain-side  the  battle  rolls  along; 

Now  dowrn  into  the  valley’s  womb  the  tugging  warriors  throng; 


206 


BALLADS. 


As  hounds  around  a hunted  wolf  some  forest  rock  beneath, 
Whence  comes  no  sound  save  the  mortal  rush  and  the  gnash  of 
many  teeth, 

Their  charging  shouts  have  died  away  — no  sound  rolls  upwards 
save 

The  volley  of  the  murderous  gun,  and  the  crash  of  axe  and 
glaive ! 

O,  life  it  is  a precious  gem,  yet  many  there  will  throw 
The  gem  away  in  that  mortal  fray  for  vengeance  on  their  foe, 
And  thus  they  tug  more  silent  still,  till  the  glen  is  covered  wide 
With  war-steed  strong,  and  sabred  corse,  and  many  a gory  tide. 


x. 

Hurrah  ! that  shout  it  rolleth  up  with  cadence  wild  and  stern ; 

’Tis  the  triumph  roar  of  the  gallowglass,  and  the  sharp  yell  of 
the  kern ! 

The  foeman  flies  before  their  steel  — not  far,  not  far  he  flies ; 

In  the  gorge’s  mouth,  in  the  valley’s  womb,  by  the  mountain  foot 
he  dies ; 

Where’er  he  speeds,  death  follows  him  like  a shadow  in  his 
tracks  — 

He  meets  the  gleam  of  the  fearful  pike,  and  the  sharp  and  gory 
axe ! 

Their  leader  of  the  boasting  words,  young  Trimblestown,  was 
ta’en, 

And  his  champions  all,  save  one  weak  man,  in  that  bloody  gorge 
were  slain  : 

They  sped  him  on,  unchased  by  kern,  unsmote  by  gallowglass*, 

That  he  might  tell  how  his  comrades  fell  that  morn  in  Tyrrell’s 
Pass ! 


THE  RED  ROSE  AND  THE  WHITE. 


i. 

The  Red  Rose  to  the  White  Rose  spake, 
Within  the  garden  fair : — 

“ O,  sister,  sister,  I shall  make 
A garland  for  her  hair  — 

A garland  for  my  lady  gay, 

In  spring-time  of  the  year, 

And  she  shall  bloom,  ere  next  blithe  May, 
A bride  without  a peer ! ” 


BALLADS. 


207 


ii. 

“ O,  list  ye,  list  ye,”  said  the  White, 
“Perchance  ’tis  I may  rest 
Among  her  locks  of  golden  light, 

And  on  her  gentle  breast,  — 

Her  breast  that’s  like  my  pearly  leaves 
In  spring-time  of  the  year, 

For  Nature  also  works  and  weaves 
Sad  garlands  for  a bier ! 

hi. 

“When  last  she  came  to  this  sweet  bower, 
A little  bird  sang  by, 

A sad  song  of  a glorious  flower 
He  knew  in  spring  would  die. 

And  aye  with  woful  grief  I burn, 

In  spring-time  of  the  year, 

That  thou’lt  ne’er  grace  her  bridal  morn, 
That  I must  deck  her  bier ! ” 


IV. 

“Now,  cease  thy  boding  voice  of  woe  ! ” 
The  Red  Rose  cries  again ; 

“ See  where,  in  pride  of  beauty’s  glow, 
Forth  walks  she  with  her  train ; 

Bright  as  the  morn  all  glittering 
In  spring-time  of  the  year  — 

Can  death  e’er  strike  so  fair  a thing, 
That  maid  without  a peer  ? ” 


v. 

When  flowers  were  smiling  through  the  land, 
In  glen  and  forest  tall, 

Yoifng  Lady  Ann  looked  down  the  strand 
From  Mallow’s  castle  wall, 

And  there  she  saw  Lord  Thomas  stand, 

In  spring-time  oL  the  year, 

Her  own  young  knight,  with  hawk  on  hand, 
That  morning  mild  and  clear. 


VI. 

“Come  down,  come  down,  O,  lady  sweet, 
We’ll  range  the  greenwoods  fair, 


208 


BALLADS. 


With  hawk,  and  hound,  and  courser  fleet, 
To  chase  the  timid  hare ; 

To  rouse  the  pheasant  from  the  woods, 

In  spring-time  of  the  year, 

And  start  the  heron  where.he  broods 
’Mid  sedges  tall  and  sere.” 

VII. 

She’s  mounted  on  the  gallant  bay, 

And  he  upon  the  black ; 

They’ve  hunted  all  the  livelong  day 
Through  glen  and  forest  track ; 

They’re  resting  now  beneath  the  spray, 

In  spring-time  of  the  year, 

Beside  Queen  Cleena’s  rock’s  so  gray,* 
With  wild  waves  murmuring  near. 

VIII. 

Across  her  face  a cold  blast  blew, 

Was  sent  by  some  dark  fay  — 

It  blighted  her,  though  no  one  knew, 

That  sweet,  sweet  sunny  day. 

Yet  glad  she  rode  towards  Mallow’s  wall, 
In  spring-time  of  the  year, 

And  blithely  sat  she  in  the  hall 
Beside  her  lover  dear. 


ix. 

At  eve  they  made  the  altar  bright 
For  morning’s  bridal  train  ; 

But  Lady  Ann  slept  sound  that  night, 

And  never  woke  again. 

The  Red  Rose  it  was  dead  and  gone 
In  spring-time  of  the  year;  » 

The  White  Rose  ’mid  her  bright  locks  shone, 
And  decked  her  mournful  bier. 


x. 

il  She  died  not!  ” still  the  peasants  say  — 

“ Within  Queen  Cleena’s  hall 

* Corig  Cleena,  a few  miles  above  Mallow.  This  wild  and  solitary  rock 
is  believed  by  the  peasantry  to  be  the  principal  habitation  of  Cleena,  the 
Fairy  Queen  of  South  Munster. 


BALLADS. 


209 


She  lives  ’mong  elf-maids  bright  and  gay, 
The  fairest  of  them  all ; 

Each  night,  upon  her  gallant  bay, 

In  spring-time  of  the  year, 

She  rideth  round  that  rock  so  gray, 

In  the  ghostly  moonlight  clear ! ” 


THE  DEATH  OF  O’DONNELL. 

A.  D.  1257. 


I. 

Red  victory  smiled  on  thy  legions,  Tir  Conaill, 

When  the  Geraldine  fell  ’neath  the  sparth  of  O’Donnell; 
But  fierce  was  the  wailing,  and  wild  was  the  sorrow 
That  broke  from  thy  septs  ere  the  dawn  of  the  morrow ! 

For  the  prince  of  their  bosoms  the  champions  are  grieving: 
He  fell  while  their  axes  the  fierce  foe  were  cleaving, 

And  he  lies  in  his  death-wounds  by  Swilly’s  dark  river, 
With  his  nation  around  him,  as  fearless  as  ever; 

Joy,  joy  in  his  heart,  though  its  pulses  be  dying, 

That  he  fell  while  the  foe  from  his  valleys  were  flying. 

ii. 

The  clans  of  Tyrone,  from  their  forays  returning, 

Hear  thy  death  strains,  Tir  Conaill,  and  joy  in  thy  mourning, 
That  he  whose  right  hand  was  thy  true  stay  in  danger, 

Lies  wounded  to  death  ’neath  the  blow  of  the  stranger ; 

And  they  well  know  a nation  thus  reft  of  its  leader 
’Neath  the  brands  of  a foe  into  ruin  will  speed  her. 

High  hope  for  O’Niall ! How  he  bands  his  wild  kerne 
From  the  shores  of  bright  Neagh  to  the  green  isles  of  Erne ! 
O,  round  him  like  torrents  his  vassals  come  sweeping, 
Where  the  waves  of  strong  Derg  down  the  valleys  are  leaping. 

hi. 

O’Donnell  he  lies  where  the  green  mountain  forest 
In  the  glow  of  the  sunlight  spreads  thickest  and  hoarest, 
While  up  to  his  death-couch  in  frantic  disorder 
Rush  the  men  of  fleet  coursers,  the  scouts  of  his  border; 
And  they  tell,  in  their  fear,  of  the  black  storms  looming, 
How  the  red-handed  Niall  and  his  thousands  are  coming ! 

14: 


210 


BALLADS. 


Then  quick  spreads  the  fear  of  the  mighty  invader, 

Yet  all  for  Tir  Conaill  are  banding  to  aid  her; 

And  their  chieftain  — alas  ! that  the  death- wounds  have 
bound  him  — 

Calls  the  men  of  his  might  from  the  valleys  around  him. 


IV. 

Then  he  raises  his  voice  by  that  wild  river  billow, 

With  the  gash  in  his  breast,  and  the  gore  on  his  pillow  — 
“O’Niall,”  he  says,  “from  his  mountains  of  bleakness 
Ever  came  in  the  hours  of  our  sorrow  and  weakness : 

He  pours  on  our  valleys,  and  now  we  will  greet  him 
With  the  welcome  of  old  on  the  plains  where  we  meet  him! 
In  the  day  of  my  strength  ye  have  found  me  before  ye, 
Where’er  your  bright  claymores  to  victory  bore  ye ; 

In  the  day  of  my  weakness  my  soul  must  be  longing 
To  see  how  my  people  to  battle  are  thronging! 

v. 

“ Then  sound  ye,  my  children,  the  war  note  defiant 
Erom  the  gray  Arran  cliffs  to  the  Pass  of  the  Giant, 

And  make  me  a bier  like  the  biers  of  my  fathers : 

Bear  me  high  in  your  van,  where  the  red  Niall  gathers,* 
And  we’ll  scatter  his  bands,  as  the  storm-clouds  of  heaven 
Erom  Aileach’s  black  rocks  by  her  thunders  are  driven ! ” 
Then  the  hearts  of  his  warriors  grow  stronger  and  prouder, 
And  the  shouts  of  their  ardor  swell  wilder  and  louder, 

And  fiercely  their  war-pipes  are  ringing  and  pealing, 

Erom  the  low-lying  glens  to  the  far  mountain  shieling. 

YI. 

They’ve  made  him  a bier  like  the  biers  of  his  fathers ; 

They  bear  him  afar  where  the  red  Niall  gathers ; 

Six  champions  of  might  from  that  green  forest  alley 
Bear  him  on  through  each  wild  glade  and  torrent-bound 
valley, 

To  a small  mountain  plain,  by  a swift  river  torn, 

Where  the  May-heather  gleams  in  the  dew  of  the  morn ; 
But  its  vernal  expanse,  by  the  fairy -rings  spotted, 

Ere  the  sheen  of  the  evening,  with  gore  shall  be  clotted ; 

* “ He  then  directed  his  men  to  place  him  on  the  bier  which  should  take 
him  to  the  grave,  and  to  carry  him  on  it  at  the  head  of  his  forces.”  — Hav- 
erty’s  History  of  Ireland . See  also  Annals  of  the  Four  Masters. 


BALLADS. 


211 


For  there,  with  their  claymores  so  gallantly  flashing, 

The  septs  of  Tyrone  on  Tir  Conaill  are  dashing! 

VII. 

O,  fiercely  they  meet ! As  the  foam-wreathed  surges, 

When  some  demon  of  midnight  their  black  fury  urges 
To  shatter  thy  cross,  Ard  Oilean  of  the  prayers, 

So  rush  and  so  meet  the  wild  bands  of  the  slayers  ! 

Soon  the  septs  of  Tyrone  in  their  might  are  prevailing, 

And  the  strength  of  Tir  Conaill  is  riven  and  failing  — 

But  the  bier,  the  black  bier,  with  the  prince  of  their  valor,  — 
O,  they  look  on  his  face  in  its  last  mortal  pallor, 

And  they  band  them  once  more,  and  rush  fiercely  together 
On  the  files  of  Tyrone,  o’er  the  blood-crimsoned  heather. 

VIII. 

Shout,  shout  for  Tir  Conaill ! Hurrah,  for  her  striving ! 
Now  the  ranks  of  the  foeman  her  claymores  are  riving; 

The  hoofs  of  her  steeds  through  his  red  blood  are  plashing, 
And  each  rider’s  bright  sparth  ’mid  his  squadrons  is  crashing ! 
As  a herd  of  gray  wolves  the  O’Niall  she  scatters, 

As  the  dust  of  the  desert  his  legions  she  shatters ; 

But  who,  in  her  next  hour  of  need,  will  defend  her? 

For  a corse  on  his  bier  lies  the  prince  of  her  splendor! 

O ! he  died  while  his  flags  waved  in  victory  o’er  him, 

With  the  last  of  his  foemen  far  scattered  before  him! 


IX. 

He  worsted  the  stranger,  he  routed  O’Niall, 

And  long,  long  again  ere  they  band  for  the  trial ; 

Too  well  they  remember  the  welcome  he  gave  them, 

When  flight,  nor  the  strength  of  their  numbers  could  save 
them. 

O ! loud  through  the  wild  hills  his  coronach  swelleth ; 

It  startles  the  dun  deer  and  wolf  where  he  dwelleth; 

There  are  eyes  red  with  sorrow,  from  Erne’s  green  islands 
To  wild  Inishone  of  the  wood-belted  highlands ; 

For  they’ll  ne’er  meet  his  peer  in  the  sad  hour  of  danger 
’Gainst  the  septs  of  the  south,  or  the  false-hearted  stranger ! 


212 


BALLADS. 


ROMANCE  OF  THE  GOLDEN  SPURS. 


“I  am  weary,  I am  weary  of  the  lagging  hours  alway, 

The  wound  I got  last  autumn,  it  pains  me  sore  to-day  — 

’Tis  burning  and  ’tis  paining  worse  than  when  ’twas  wet  with  gore, 
And  the  joy  of  peace  or  battle  I never  shall  see  more.” 

ii. 

Thus  spoke  the  brave  Sir  Thomas,  the  knight  of  Imokeel : 
Beneath  the  Desmond’s  banner  he’d  drawn  his  conquering  steel; 
But  out  beneath  that  banner  he  never  more  may  ride, 

With  that  shot-maimed  arm  of  valor,  and  that  lance-liead  in  his 
side. 

in. 

“My  gallant  boy,  come  hither;  I give  thee  my  brave  steed, 

My  trusty  blade  I give  thee  to  serve  thee  in  thy  need ; 

Then  don  thy  battle  harness,  and  with  thy  following  ride 
To  join  the  noble  Desmond  by  Imokeely’s  side ! ” 

IV. 

Then  out  and  spake  the  mother,  a fond  and  fair  ladye, 

“ If  I should  lose  my  Gerald,  O ! what  can  comfort  me? 

If  I should  lose  my  Gerald  — if  slain  my  boy  should  be, 

One  hour  of  peace  or  happiness  I never  more  can  see ! ” 


v. 

But  nathless  her  beseeching,  and  nathless  sigh  and  tear, 

Young  Gerald’s  gone  to  battle  with  many  a gallant  spear; 

And  in  the  early  morning,  by  Bride’s  resounding  wave, 

They  mark  the  sunbeams  glancing  from  hostile  helm  and  glaive. 


VI. 

“ Come  hither,  O ! come  hither,  thou  stripling  young  and  gay,”  — 
’Twas  thus  upon  the  hill-side  the  Desmond  bold  did  say,  — 

“ We’ll  down  upon  yon  army  : God  wot,  we’ll  give  them  play  : 
Go  thou  and  take  their  castle,  and  win  thy  spurs  to-day  I ” 

VII. 

It  was  above  the  bridge-end  that  castle  proud  did  stand ; 

It  was  a gallant  fortress  as  e’er  was  in  the  land ; 


BALLADS. 


213 


And  downward  dashed  young  Gerald  at  his  brave  lord’s  com- 
mand, 

With  his  fearless  ranks  behind  him,  and  his  long  glaive  in  his 
hand ! 


VIII. 

He’s  leapt  the  fosse  so  bravely,  ’mid  shot,  and  smoke,  and  wrack; 
He’s  mounted  to  the  ramparts,  his  brave  men  at  his  back ; — 
They’ve  ta’en  the  gallant  fortress  at  the  good  point  of  the  steel, 
But  where  is  he,  their  leader,  the  Boy  of  Imokeel? 


IX. 

They’ve  searched  round  fosse  and  rampart,  but  cannot  find  him 
there ; 

They’ve  searched  the  battered  chambers,  and  up  the  gory  stair, 
Till  by  the  turret  window,  with  his  helmet  cleft  in  twain, 

They’ve  found  their  young  commander  ’mid  a circle  of  the  slain  ! 

x. 

It  was  a day  of  triumph  to  the  Desmond  by  that  shore, 

And  yet  a day  of  sorrow,  when  young  Gerald  up  they  bore  — 

Up  they  bore  unto  the  hill-side,  where  the  noble  Desmond  stood, 
With  his  golden  banner  o’er  him,  stained  with  many  a foeman’s 


Then  out  and  spoke  the  Desmond  : “ Ho  ! list  ye  all  to  me  ! 

This  boy  has  ta’en  the  castle  — this  boy  a knight  shall  be ; 

But  the  hue  of  death’s  upon  him,  and  he  cannot  speak  or  kneel ; 
Ho  ! page  ; my  spurs  — unbrace  them,  and  fix  them  on  his  heel.” 

XII. 

I wis  the  sight  was  woful,  e’en  in  that  foughten  place, 

With  the  red  gash  on  his  forehead,  and  the  blood  on  his  pale  face, 
With  the  golden  spurs  braced  on  him,  glittering  in  the  sunlight 
clear, 

Beneath  that  rustling  banner,  stretched  upon  his  gory  bier ! 

XIII. 

Through  Imokeel  they  bore  him,  ’cross  many  a plain  and  dell,  — 
They  bore  him  to  his  father,  and  told  him  how  he  fell ; 

The  old  man’s  wound  burst  open,  and  the  blood  welled  from  his 
side, 

And  he  kissed  his  pale  young  champion,  and  down  he  sank,  and 
died ! 


214 


BALLADS. 


XIY. 

“ Now  leave  me,”  said  the  mother,  as  wild  she  made  her  moan,  — 
“Now  leave  me  in  this  chamber,  to  my  great  grief  alone ! ” 

And  she  raised  her  voice  in  wailing  till  the  twilight  gathered  down 
Upon  her  leafy  forests,  and  her  hills  and  moorlands  brown. 

xv. 

It  was  the  starry  midnight  ere  the  mother’s  tones  sank  low, 

And  she  prayed  unto  Our  Lady  with  a broken  voice  and  slow  : — 
“ O ! thou  who  once  wert  stricken  worse  than  I,  long,  long  ago, 
Prop  me  up  in  this  great  trial,  give  me  strength  to  bear  my  woe.” 

XVI. 

What  breaks  the  heavy  stillness  ? what  in  the  chamber  stirs  ? 
Sure  she  hears  the  clank  of  armor,  and  the  clink  of  those  bright 
spurs ! 

And  she  looks  upon  her  Gerald,  with  a thrill  of  joy  and  fear, 
For  he’s  rising,  rising  slowly,  in  his  armor  from  the  bier. 

XVII. 

O ! not  slain,  not  slain,  but  wounded ! Many  a field  of  fire  and 

steel 

Saw  those  sharp  spurs’  golden  brightness  dimmed  with  gore  upon 
each  heel ; 

For  in  aftertime  for  Erin  never  one  so  true  and  leal 
As  Sir  Gerald  of  the  Forest,  the  Knight  of  Imokeel ! 


THE  BURNING  OF  KILCOLEMAN. 


i. 

No  sound  of  life  was  coming 
From  glen,  or  tree,  or  brake, 

Save  the  bittern’s  hollow  booming 
Up  from  the  reedy  lake ; 

The  golden  light  of  sunset 
Was  swallowed  in  the  deep, 

And  the  night  came  down  with  a sullen  frown, 
On  Houra’s  craggy  steep. 

ii. 

And  Houra’s  hills  are  soundless  : 

But  hark,  that  trumpet  blast ! 


BALLADS. 


215 


It  fills  the  forest  boundless, 

Rings  round  the  summits  vast; 

’Tis  answered  by  another 

From  the  crest  of  Corrin  Mor, 

And  hark  again  the  pipe’s  wild  strain 
By  Bregoge’s  caverned  shore  ! 

hi. 

O,  sweet  at  hush  of  even 
The  trumpet’s  golden  thrill, 

Grand  ’neath  the  starry  heaven 
The  pibroch  wild  and  shrill ! 

Yet  all  were  pale  with  terror, 

The  fearful  and  the  bold, 

Who  heard  its  tone  that  twilight  lone 
In  the  Poet’s  frowning  hold ! * 


IV. 

Well  might  their  hearts  be  beating; 

For  up  the  mountain  pass, 

By  lake  and  river  meeting, 

Came  kern  and  galloglass, 
Breathing  vengeance  deadly, 

Under  the  forest  tree, 

To  the  wizard  man  who  cast  the  ban 
On  the  minstrels  bold  and  free ! 


v. 

They  gave  no  word  of  warning, 

Round  still  they  came,  and  on, 

Door,  wall,  and  rampart  scorning  — 

They  knew  not  he  was  gone ! 

Gone  fast  and  far  that  even, 

All  secret  as  the  wind, 

His  treasures  all  in  that  castle  tall, 

And  his  infant  son  behind ! 

* Kilcoleman  Castle  — an  ancient  and  very  picturesque  ruin,  once  the 
residence  of  Spenser,  lies  on  the  shore  of  a small  lake,  about  two  miles  to 
the  west  of  Doneraile,  in  the  county  Cork.  It  belonged  once  to  the  Earls 
of  Desmond,  and  was  burned  by  their  followers  in  1598.  Spenser,  who 
was  hated  by  the  Irish  in  consequence  of  his  stringent  advices  to  the  Eng- 
lish about  the  management  of  the  refractory  chiefs  and  minstrels,  nar- 
rowly escaped  with  his  life,  and  an  infant  child  of  his,  unfortunately  left 
behind,  was  burnt  to  death  in  the  flames. 


216 


BALLADS. 


VI. 

All  still  that  castle  hoarest  — 

Their  pipes  and  horns  were  still, 
While  gazed  they  through  the  forest, 
Up  glen  and  northern  hill; 

Till  from  the  Brelion  circle,* 

On  Corrin’s  crest  of  stone, 

A sheet  of  fire  like  an  Indian  pyre 
Up  to  the  clouds  was  thrown. 

VII. 

Then,  with  a mighty  blazing, 

They  answered  — to  the  sky  — 

It  dazzled  their  own  gazing, 

So  bright  it  rolled  and  high ; 

The  castle  of  the  Poet,  — 

The  man  of  endless  fame,  — 

Soon  hid  its  head  in  a mantle  red 
Of  fierce  and  rushing  flame. 

VIII. 

Out  burst  the  vassals,  praying 
For  mercy  as  they  sped  — 

“ Where  was  their  master  staying  — 
Where  was  the  Poet  fled?” 

But  hark  ! that  thrilling  screaming, 
Over  the  crackling  din,  — 

’Tis  the  Poet’s  child  in  its  terror  wild, 
The  blazing  tower  within ! 


IX. 

There  was  a warlike  giant 
Amid  the  listening  throng, 

He  looked  with  face  defiant 

On  the  flames  so  wild  and  strong, 
Then  rushed  into  the  castle, 

And  up  the  rocky  stair, 

But  alas  ! alas  ! he  could  not  pass 
To  the  burning  infant  there  ! 


* On  the  summit  of  Corrin  Mor,  one  of  the  Ballyhoura  mountains,  is  a 
large  circle  of  stones,  in  the  centre  of  which  rises  a loose  conical  pile  of 
small  rocks.  It  was  most  probably  a Brehon  circle  or  judgment-seat. 


BALLADS. 


217 


X. 

The  wall  was  tottering  under, 

And  the  flame  was  whirring  round, 

The  wall  went  down  in  thunder, 

And  dashed  him  to  the  ground; 

Up  in  the  burning  chamber, 

Forever  died  that  scream, 

And  the  fire  sprang  out  with  a wilder  shout, 
And  a fiercer,  ghastlier  gleam ! 


XI. 

It  glared  o’er  hill  and  hollow, 

Up  many  a rocky  bar, 

From  ancient  Kilnamulla 
To  Darra’s  Peak  afar; 

Then  it  heaved  into  the  darkness 
With  a final  roar  amain, 

And  sank  in  gloom  with  a whirring  boom, 

And  all  was  dark  again ! 

XII. 

Away  sped  the  galloglasses 
And  kerns,  all  still  again, 

Through  Houra’s  lonely  passes, 

Wild,  fierce,  and  reckless  men. 

But  such  the  Saxon  made  them, 

Poor  sons  of  war  and  woe  ; 

So  they  venged  their  strife  with  flame  and  knife 
On  his  head  long,  long  ago ! 


ROMANCE  OF  MEERGAL  AND  GARMON. 

jFgtte  tfje  Jtrst. 


’Tis  Meergal  of  the  Mountain  that  sighs  so  mournfully, 
With  tearful  eyes  far  gazing  o’er  the  star-bespangled  sea; 
All  alone,  alone  in  sorrow,  by  the  Rock  of  Brananmor, 
Behind  her  love’s  calm  planet,  and  the  sinking  moon  before. 


218 


BALLADS. 


II. 

Nought  beholds  she  as  she  gazes  through  the  dim  and  windless 
west, 

Save  the  diamond  star-beams  dancing  o’er  the  sea’s  resplendent 
breast, 

And  the  glorious  changeful  glitter  of  the  shimmering  splendor 
train, 

From  the  shore,  to  where  the  bright  moon  hangs  above  the  silent 
main. 

hi. 

And  she  cries,  “ He  is  not  coming!  I have  waited  many  a day 

To  see  his  white  sail  gleaming  o’er  the  blue  waves  far  away ; 

Many  a midnight  have  I wept  him  with  a sad  heart  mournfully, 

But  he  cometli  not,  he  cometh  not,  across  the  weary  sea ! ” 


IV. 

The  moon  hangs  o’er  the  water,  with  its  face  so  calm  and  pale, 
Now  the  lady  looks  beneath  it,  and  she  sees  a rising  sail, 

And  along  that  line  of  splendor  comes  a boat  as  bright  as  flame, 
With  a wondrous  sheen  all  sparkling,  as  if  out  from  Heaven  it 


Asa  fragment  from  the  morning  is  its  light  sail  gleaming  o’er, 
Glow  its  smooth  sides  like  the  sunset,  glitter  diamonds  on  its 
prore ; 

By  its  mast  a youth  is  sitting  with  an  angel’s  beauty  crowned, 
And  the  lady  shrieks  with  gladness,  for  her  long-lost  love  is 
found ! 

jfgtte  tfje  cSeconti. 

i. 

Young  Meergal  of  the  Mountain,  she  sits  all  fond  and  fain, 

With  her  own  betrothed  Garmon  by  the  star-bespangled  main, 
And  she  cries : “ O,  long-lost  rover,  O,  beloved  Garmon,  tell 
Why  thou  comest  thus  so  strangely,  in  what  bright  land  did’st 
thou  dwell ! 

ii. 

u For  I’ve  searched  by  strand  and  forest,  I have  waited  many  a day 
By  the  deep,  to  see  thy  white  sail  o’er  the  blue  waves  far  away ; 
Many  a midnight  have  I wept  thee,  with  a sad  heart  mournfully 
Thinking,  fearing  thou  wert  lying  ’neath  the  weary,  weary  sea ! ” 


BALLADS. 


219 


III. 

“ There  was  silence  on  the  forest  and  the  wide-spread  burnished 
deep ; 

To  the  westward  I was  gazing  from  Brananmor  the  steep, 

And  I saw  the  Land  of  Glory  through  that  sunset  of  the  May, 

O,  the  beautiful  Hy  Brasil,”  answered  Garmon  of  the  Bay. 


IV. 

“ I pulled  a blessed  shamrock  by  the  old  saint’s  carven  stone, 
And  I took  my  boat  and  faced  her  to  Hy  Brasil  all  alone, 
And  a gentle  wind  ’gan  blowing  as  I left  this  iron  shore, 

And  the  sea  grew  ever  brighter  as  I wafted  swiftly  o’er, 


v. 


“ Before  me  in  the  water,  with  a face  like  Heaven  so  fair, 

Up  rose  the  smiling  Mermaid  with  her  glossy  golden  hair, 

And  she  gazed  all  gently  on  me,  and  she  raised  her  queenly 
hand, 

Pointing  through  the  amber  sunset  to  that  far  off  heavenly 
land ! 


VI. 


“ Still  on,  and  on  before  me  went  that  maiden  of  the  wave, 

My  soul  all  drunk  with  pleasure  at  each  piercing  glance  she 
gave, 

And  my  heart  all  wildly  throbbing  at  the  witching  smiles  she 
wore, 

Till  five  boat-lengths  scarce  before  me  spread  Hy  Brasil’s  golden 
shore ! 


VII. 


“But  ’twas  all  a land  of  shadows  with  the  rainbow’s  radiance 
wove, 

From  the  green  sky-piercing  mountain,  to  the  sunny  lowland 
grove ; 

Its  lovely  shore  receded  as  my  boat  went  swiftly  on, 

And  the  maiden  of  the  ocean  with  the  witching  smiles  was 


“ I bethought  me  of  the  shamrock  in  its  emerald  glories  drest, 
With  the  earth  still  fresh  upon  it,  and  I took  it  from  my  breast; 
I threw  it  to  the  breezes,  and  they  bore  it  to  the  strand, 

And  it  never  more  receded  : — I trod  the  Enchanted  Land ! 


220 


BALLADS. 


IX. 

“ A wild  ecstatic  wonder  fills  my  soul  since  that  strange  day, 
For  I’ve  walked  with  those  enchanted  in  the  ages  past  away ; 
And  I’ve  brought  this  boat  of  glory,  O,  my  lady  love,  for  thee, 
And  we’ll  sail  to  calm  Hy  Brasil,  and  be  blest  eternally ! ” 


JFgtte  tlje  JPjtrti. 

I. 

’Tis  Meergal  of  the  Mountain  that  never  more  may  weep, 

For  she  sits  beside  her  Garmon  on  the  star-bespangled  deep ; 
And  in  that  boat  of  beauty  are  they  sailing  to  the  west, 

With  a love  that  lives  eternal,  towards  the  regions  of  the  blest. 


ii. 


And  its  many-tinted  dwellers  rose  from  out  the  deep’s  still  domes, 
To  see  what  moving  radiance  glittered  o’er  their  sparry  homes ; 
And  the  dolphin  heaved  and  gambolled  around  their  glorious 
track, 

With  the  sea  one  blaze  of  splendor  where  he  showed  his  prismy 
back. 


hi. 


Behind  them  rose  the  morning  o’er  a green  and  golden  sea, 
And  that  swift  boat  seemed  its  herald,  it  moved  so  gloriously ; 
And  a sweet,  unearthly  music  filled  the  atmosphere  around, 
On  their  ears  forever  falling  with  a soul-entrancing  sound. 


IV. 

It  was  the  purple  sunset,  when  the  breeze  blew  warm  and  bland, 

And  they  saw  a shore  beyond  them  by  its  breath  of  fragrance 
fanned, 

And  within  a heavenly  harbor,  under  hills  serenely  grand, 

They  have  moored  that  boat  of  wonder  in  Hy  Brasil’s  golden 
land. 

v. 

Up  they  wandered  through  the  mountains,  from  the  broad  ceru- 
lean sea, 

Till  they  reached  a beauteous  valley  decked  with  many  a fragrant 
tree ; 

As  the  countless  stars  that  glitter  on  a cold  December  night, 

Shone  the  flowers’  gay-tinted  blossoms  o’er  that  valley  of  delight. 


BALLADS. 


221 


VI. 

There  a crystal  stream  danced  downward  with  a wild  melodious 
song, 

And  like  children  of  the  rainbow  flew  the  warbling  birds  along; 

Sang  they  sweetly  as  the  wild  harp  when  a master  sweeps  its 
wire, 

As  they  flew  from  shore  to  greenwood,  like  gray  sparks  of  heaven- 
ly fire. 

vir. 

Like  the  deep-blue  depths  of  heaven,  when  the  April  hours 
come  on, 

A lake,  broad,  calm  and  glorious,  ’mid  that  valley’s  bosom  shone, 

With  its  splendor- tinted  islands,  and  their  music-murmuring 
groves, 

With  its  green  encircling  mountains,  and  its  fairy  strands  and 
coves. 


VIII. 

On  shore  and  shining  island  gleamed  hall  and  palace  gay, 

Where  dwell  the  blest  Enchanted  in  cloudless  joy  alway ; 

Where  roam  the  Fairy  People  through  the  scenes  they  like  so 
well ; 

And,  “O,  love,  O,  love!”  said  Garmon,  “here  forevermore  we 
dwell!” 


IX. 


When  the  stars  are  on  the  waters,  and  the  peasants  by  the  shore, 
Oft  they  see  that  boat  of  beauty,  with  the  sparkling  diamond  prore, 
Sailing,  sailing  with  the  lovers  o’er  the  silent  midnight  sea, 

To  the  beautiful  Hy  Brasil,*  where  they’re  blest  eternally ! 


* Hy  Brasil  — the  Island  of  Atlantis  — the  Western  Land,  &c.,  is  sup- 
posed to  be  indentical  with  Tir-n-a-n  Oge,  the  Paradise  of  the  Pagan  Irish. 
The  peasantry  believe  they  can  still  see  it  at  sunset  from  the  coasts  of 
Clare,  Galway,  and  Donegal.  Brananmor  is  one  of  the  highest  pinnacles 
of  the  great  precipice  of  Moher,  on  the  coast  of  Clare. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


(223) 


IN  LIFE’S  YOUNG  MORNING. 
To  mt  Wife. 

Air — <c  The  Woods  in  Bloom.” 


I. 

In  life’s  young  morning  I quaffed  the  wine 
From  Love’s  bright  bowl  as  it  sparkling  came, 
And  it  warms  me  ever,  that  draught  divine, 

When  I think  of  thee,  dearest,  or  name  thy  name. 
The  night  may  fall,  and  the  winds  may  blow 
From  palace  gardens  or  place  of  tombs, 

Yet  I dream  of  our  Love-time  long  ago 
Beneath  the  yellow  laburnum  blooms. 


ii. 

Gay  was  the  garden,  bright  shone  the  bower, 

Like  a golden  tent  ’neatli  the  summer  skies, 

The  sunbeams  glittered  on  leaf  and  flower, 

And  the  light  of  heaven  seemed  in  your  eyes; 
The  night  may  fall,  and  the  winds  may  blow, 

But  a gladness  ever  my  heart  assumes 
From  that  wine  of  love  quaffed  long  ago 
Beneath  the  yellow  laburnum  blooms. 

hi. 

O’er  vale  and  forest  dark  falls  the  night, 

Yet  my  heart  goes  back  to  the  sun  and  shine 
When  you  stood  in  the  glory  of  girlhood  bright 
’Neath  the  golden  blossoms,  your  hand  in  mine ; 

15  (225) 


226 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


The  night  may  fall,  and  the  winds  may  blow, 

And  the  greenwoods  wither  ’neath  winter  glooms, 
Yet  it  lives  forever,  that  long  ago, 

Beneath  the  yellow  laburnum  blooms. 


IV. 

Through  the  misty  night  to  the  eye  and  ear 

Come  the  glitter  of  flowers  and  the  songs  of  birds, 
Come  thy  looks  of  fondness  to  me  so  dear, 

And  thy  witching  smiles  and  thy  loving  words ; 
The  night  may  fall  and  the  winds  may  blow, 

But  that  hour  forever  my  soul  illumes,  — 

Our  golden  Love-time  long  ago, 

Beneath  the  yellow  laburnum  blooms. 


SONG  OF  TREN  THE  FAIRY. 

Air  — 11  The  Fairy  Companie.” 


i. 

From  flower  bells  of  each  hue, 
Crystal  white  or  golden  yellow, 
Purple,  violet,  red,  or  blue, 

We  drink  the  honey-dew 
Until  we  all  get  mellow.  — 

Until  we  all  get  mellow, 

And  through  our  festal  glee 
I’m  the  blithest  little  fellow 
In  the  fairy  companie. 

ii. 

In  the  fairy  companie 

They  call  me  Tren  the  Merry, 
And  no  name’s  so  fit  for  me, 

For  I love  in  revelry 

Each  gloomy  thought  to  bury,  — 
Each  dark,  sad  thought  to  bury, 
As  I laugh  by  flower  and  tree, 
Hill,  stream,  and  river  ferry, 
’Midst  the  fairy  companie. 


SOISTHS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


227 


hi. 

’Neath  the  sunset’s  purple  ray 
Cups  of  purple  wine  we  swallow ; 
Then  I laugh,  and  sing,  and  play, 
And  my  fairy  mates  are  gay, 

And  where’er  I go  they  follow,  — 
With  laughter  mad  they  follow, 

I dance  so  merrilie, 

O’er  hill  and  flower-starred  hollow, 
For  the  fairy  companie. 


IV. 

Our  brightest,  favorite  spot 
Is  in  a Munster  wild-wood, 

Where  the  foot  of  man  comes  not, 

And  the  rays  are  ne’er  too  hot, 

And  the  stream- voice  clear  and  mild  would  — 
Merry,  low,  and  sweet,  and  mild  — would 
Make  the  dead  leap  up  in  glee, 

And  the  flowers  keep  in  their  childhood 
For  the  fairy  companie. 


v. 

There  from  bells  of  many  a hue, 

Crystal  white,  or  golden  yellow, 

The  blissful  summer  through, 

We  drink  the  honey-dew, 

Until  we  all  get  mellow,  — 

Laughing,  quaffing,  glad,  and  mellow, 
And  through  our  festal  glee, 

I’m  the  blithest  little  fellow 
In  the  fairy  companie. 


228 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


MY  BOAT. 

Air  — “ I’ll  build  my  Love  a gallant  Ship.” 


I. 

My  boat  is  like  the  sea-gull  white 
That  skims  o’er  strand  and  swell, 

It  looks  so  bright,  and  sails  so  light, 

And  stems  the  tide  so  well ; 

The  soft  wild  gale  fills  out  its  sail, 

And  wafts  it  towards  the  sea, 

And  floats  me  down  from  Cork’s  fair  town 
Upon  the  pleasant  Lee. 


ii. 

I sit  within  that  bonnie  boat 
When  love  o’er  me  has  power, 

When  sea  birds  float  with  shrilly  note 
At  sunset’s  golden  hour ; 

Then  from  the  shore  green  towering  o’er 
Love  seems  to  pilot  me, 

To  muse  alone  on  my  loved  one 
Upon  the  pleasant  Lee. 

hi. 

When  first  my  boat  upon  the  tide 
A thing  of  life  out  came, 

With  conscious  pride,  upon  its  side, 

I placed  my  true-love’s  name ; 

And  since,  each  day,  that  name  the  spray 
Has  washed  full  wild  and  free, 

But  still  each  line  undimmed  doth  shine 
Upon  the  pleasant  Lee. 

IV. 

A trim  new  sail  my  boat  shall  have 
When  summer  days  come  on, 

And  swift  and  brave  she’ll  walk  the  wave. 
More  stately  than  the  swan  ; 

For  then  my  bloom-bright  maid  shall  come 
With  love  and  joy  to  me, 

And  side  by  side  we  oft  shall  glide 
Upon  the  pleasant  Lee. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


229 


THE  MOUNTAINS  HIGH. 

Air  — tl  ’Tis  with  my  Gun  I’ll  guard  you.” 


On  lowland  plains  I wander 
All  in  the  falling  year, 

By  lowland  valleys  ponder 
Upon  my  true-love  dear; 

But  spring  will  soon  restore  me 
The  smiles  of  Mary’s  eye, 

And  the  grand  clouds  flying  o’er  me 
Upon  the  mountains  high. 

ii. 

Within  the  lowland  valley 
There  stands  a castle  strong, 
Where  round  in  each  green  alley 
You’ll  hear  the  wild  bird’s  song; 
Far  sweeter  visions  move  me, 

When  I hear  the  eagle’s  cry, 

From  the  fields  of  God  above  me, 
Upon  the  mountains  high. 

hi. 

When  autumn  time  is  coming 
Along  the  hills  and  dells, 

You’ll  hear  the  wild  bees  humming 
Among  the  heather  bells  ; 

You’ll  hear  the  gay  streams  singing 
Their  songs  to  earth  and  sky, 

Like  the  sounds  of  glad  bells  ringing 
Upon  the  mountains  high. 

iv. 

Amid  their  summits  airy, 

In  sweet  spring’s  blessed  reign, 

I’ll  sit  beside  my  Mary 
With  happy  heart  again; 

I have  no  wish  beyond  her, 

And  man  can  ne’er  descry 
Two  youthful  lovers  fonder 
Upon  the  mountains  high. 


230 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


IRELAND,  OUR  HOME. 

Air  — “ Planxty  Creagh.”  * 


I. 

O,  mournful  Isle  beyond  the  sea, 

Ireland ! our  home  ! 

With  bleeding  hearts  we  turn  to  thee, 

Our  childhood’s  home ! 
Since  that  sad  day  of  weeping  sore 
We  saw  thy  green  and  sunny  shore 
Sink  down  beyond  the  breaker’s  roar, 

Ireland ! our  native  home ! 


ii. 

O,  lovely  Isle  beyond  the  waves, 

Ireland  ! our  home  ! 

Where  shamrocks  deck  our  fathers’  graves, 

Our  childhood’s  home ! 

In  far,  far  climes  we  kneel  in  prayer 

To  Him  who  rules  earth,  sea,  and  air, 

To  end  thy  bondage  and  despair, 

Ireland ! our  native  home  l 

hi. 

O,  sunny  Isle  of  blooming  woods, 

Ireland ! our  home ! 

Of  silver  lakes  and  falling  floods, 

Our  childhood’s  home ! 

Of  golden  clouds,  of  skies  serene, 

Of  purple  hills  and  valleys  green, 

Thy  peer,  on  earth,  was  never  seen, 

Ireland ! our  native  home ! 

IV. 

O,  sacred  Isle  of  saint  and  sage, 

Ireland  ! our  home  ! 

Of  song,  and  sad  historic  page, 

Our  childhood’s  home ! 

* Real  name  of  “ When  Johnny  comes  marching  home,”  one  of  Caro- 
lan’s  Planxties. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


281 


Within  our  hearts  the  hope  is  born 
To  see  the  gay  triumphant  morn 
That  ends  thy  night  of  grief  forlorn, 

Ireland ! our  native  home  ! 


v. 

O,  genial  Isle  of  friendship  rare, 

Ireland ! our  home ! 

Of  gallant  men  and  maidens  fair, 

Our  childhood’s  home ! 
What  man  could  see  thy  daughters  bright, 
Could  sun  him  in  their  looks  of  light, 

And  fail  for  them  and  thee  to  fight  ? 

Ireland ! our  native  home ! 


VI. 

And  we,  thy  sons,  prepare  once  more, 
Ireland ! our  home  ! 

To  hurl  the  tyrant  from  thy  shore, 

Our  childhood’s  home ! 

To  plant  upon  thy  plains  the  Tree 
Of  everlasting  Liberty, 

And  rise  to  fame  or  fall  with  thee, 

Ireland ! our  native  home ! 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


WILL  OF  THE  GAP. 

Air  — “ Graine  Weal.” 

I. 

In  castle  or  town  was  there  never  a man 
Could  handle  a broadsword  or  empty  a can,  — 

Could  glory  in  danger,  whatever  might  hap, 

Like  the  Outlaw  of  Sloragh,  young  Will  of  the  Gap. 


ii. 

From  his  boot  to  his  basnet  was  burnished  so  sheen, 
And  his  arm  was  so  strong,  and  his  sword  was  so  keen, 
And  his  brain  was  the  brightest  that  e’er  laid  a trap 
To  catch  the  proud  Saxon  — young  Will  of  the  Gap. 

hi. 

Up  rose  in  the  morning  the  Ridderah  Fionn,* 

And  spurred  with  his  vassals  by  forest  and  down, 

To  catch  Will  asleep  in  the  mountain’s  broad  lap; 

But  the  sleep  of  a fox  slept  young  Will  of  the  Gap ! 


IV. 

For  he’d  gathered  his  men  ere  the  Ridderah  knew, 

And  he  placed  them  in  ambush  by  lone  Rossarue : 

“ Now  he  thinks  he  will  catch  us  just  taking  our  nap, 

But  we’ll  open  his  eyes  ! ” said  young  Will  of  the  Gap. 

v. 

The  Ridderah  rode  with  his  wild  vassals  in, 

Till  he  reached  the  deep  bosom  of  Rossa’s  lone  glynn. 
“Now  the  Ridderah’s  caught  in  his  own  wily  trap, 

So  blow  up  the  trumpet ! ” cried  Will  of  the  Gap. 

vi. 

The  signal  was  blown,  and  the  ambush  behind 

And  the  ambush  before  thundered  down  like  the  wind, 

And  scarcely  three  vassals,  to  tell  their  mishap, 

With  the  White  Knight  ’scaped  free  from  young  Will  of  the 
Gap ! 

* Ridderah  Fionn,  the  White  Knight,  lord  of  Kilbenny. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


233 


THE  FLOWER  THAT  NE’ER  SHALL  FADE. 

Air  — “ The  Doctor  tries  all  Remedies.” 


The  primrose  and  the  woodbine  bower 
By  streams  their  fragrance  fling, 

And  sweetly  blooms  the  Drinan  flower 
Amid  the  dells  in  spring ; 

The  red,  red  rose  full  brightly  blows 
In  many  a garden  shade ; 

But  flowers  and  blooms,  when  winter  comes, 
All  darkly  die  and  fade. 


ii. 

I know  a flower  that  ne’er  shall  die, 

More  dear  than  life  to  me,  — 

In  Mary’s  heart’ that  flower  doth  lie 
Of  love  and  constancy ; 

The  blooms  may  go,  when  winter’s  snow 
Robes  hill  and  greenwood  glade, 

And  storms  may  lower,  but,  O,  that  flower 
Shall  never  die  or  fade. 


THE  SONG  OF  LORD  GOLOPTIOUS. 


i. 

The  fatness  of  the  land  is  mine : 

The  swarming  game  my  Manton  kills, 
The  mighty  herds  of  lowing  kine, 

The  white  sheep  dotted  o’er  the  hills, 
The  meadows  mown  and  springing  new, 
The  waving  fields  of  golden  corn, 

The  sowers  and  the  reapers  too, 

For  I am  Lord  Goloptious  born! 


234 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


II. 

What  though  the  beastly  peasants  say 
My  grandsire’s  sire  a scullion’s  clout 
. Flourished  in  camp  ? He  made  his  hay 
When  William  turned  the  Stuart  out;  — 
Our  title  it  is  sound  and  good, 

From  vanquished  dogs  of  Irish  torn, 
Baptized  and  sealed  in  Irish  blood, 

And  I am  Lord  Goloptious  born ! 


iii. 

My  father  sold  his  vote,  they  cry, 

When  Ireland’s  wrangling  Senate  fell. 
What  then  ? I often  heard  him  sigh 
He  had  no  other  votes  to  sell, 

Such  grand  rewards  his  buyers  gave, 
The  titles  that  our  name  adorn ; 

And  England  wept  above  his  grave, 

And  I am  Lord  Goloptious  born ! 


IV. 

The  peasants  pass  my  castle  gate,  — 

A ragged,  worthless,  beggar  crew, — 
They  hate  me ; but  with  tenfold  hate 
I pay  them  back  the  interest  due ; 

As  one  so  high  in  England’s  trust, 

I look  on  them  with  proper  scorn, 
And  grind  them  to  the  bitter  dust, 

For  I am  Lord  Goloptious  born ! 


v. 

They  dare,  betimes,  with  voices  bold, 

To  raise  their  discontented  cries ; 

They  dare  to  shiver  in  the  cold, 

And  die  of  hunger  ’neath  our  eyes ! 
For  them,  the  bane  of  Church  and  State, 
For  all  such  sordid  slaves,  forlorn, 

My  maxim  is,  Exterminate, 

For  I am  Lord  Goloptious  born ! 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


235 


VI. 

Monsters  they  are  who  cannot  see 
Wisdom  in  England’s  ruling  plan, 

Who  shout  aloud  for  liberty, 

And  rave  about  the  rights  of  man,  — ■ 
Who  say  they  have  some  claim  to  eat 
Their  country’s  cattle  and  their  corn ; 
I’d  give  them  cannon  balls  for  meat, 

For  I am  Lord  Goloptious  born  I 

VII. 

O,  that  the  good  old  times  were  back 
Of  feudal  dungeons,  deep  and  strong. 
With  pitch-cap,  gibbet,  block,  and  rack, 
I’d  make  them  sing  another  song 
Than  that  old  strain,  still  unsubdued, 
About  the  dawn  of  Freedom’s  morn,  — 
I’d  spill  in  seas  their  rebel  blood, 

For  I am  Lord  Goloptious  born ! 


MARY’S  SWEETHEART. 

Air  — “ Says  the  Mother  to  the  Daughter.” 


I. 

The  first  time  that  I saw  my  love,  I knew  his  heart  was  mine, 
The  next  time  that  I saw  my  love,  I thought  he  was  divine ; 

For  he  said  he  was  no  rover,  and  would  ne’er  leave  me  to  pine, 
And,  0,  my  heart  is  happy  with  this  true-love  of  mine ! 


ii. 

I met  him  at  the  Patron  by  Saint  Mollagga’s  Tree, 

Where  at  the  dance  and  hurling,  the  boldest,  best  was  he; 

O,  my  heart  was  very  happy  on  that  blissful  holiday, 

And  I learned  to  love  him  dearly  while  we  danced  the  hours 


My  Brian  Ban  is  clothed  in  garments  of  the  frieze ; 

But  ’tis  not  costly  garments  or  hoarded  wealth  I prize ; 

’Tis  the  truthful  heart  he  gave  me,  ’tis  the  glance  of  his  kind  eyes, 
And  the  loving  tales  he  tells  me  while  the  golden  daylight  dies. 


236 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


IV. 

A brave  heart’s  in  his  bosom,  yet  he’s  gentle  as  a child ; 

He  tells  me  pleasant  stories  till  with  laughter  I am  wild ; 
He’ll  ofttimes  change  to  sadness,  and  make  me  sob  and  cry, 
Then  kiss  my  bitter  tears  away  till  none  so  glad  as  I ! 


v. 

And  now  he  sits  beside  me  in  the  greenest  dell  of  dells, 

And  the  sweetest  of  all  stories  my  fond,  fond  darling  tells, 

That  he  loves  me  with  a constant  love,  that  never  can  decay, 

Till  we  sleep  beneath  the  green  grass  in  Molagga’s  churchyard 
gray ! 


THE  CANNON. 

Air  — “ Barrack  Hill.” 


We  are  a loving  company 
Of  soldiers  brave  and  hearty ; 

We  never  fought  for  golden  fee, 

For  faction,  or  for  party ; 

The  will  to  make  old  Ireland  free. 

That  set  each  dauntless  man  on, 

And  banished  us  beyond  the  sea, 

With  our  brave  iron  cannon. 

And  here’s  the  gallant  company 

That  fought  by  Boyne  and  Shannon, 
That  never  feared  an  enemy, 

With  our  brave  iron  cannon! 


ii. 

Gome,  fill  me  up  a pint  o’  wine, 

Until  ’tis  brimming  o’er,  boys, 

Our  gun  is  set  in  proper  line, 

And  we  have  balls  galore,  boys ; 

Now,  here’s  a health  to  good  Lord  Clare, 
Who’ll  lead  us  on  to-morrow, 

When  through  the  foe  our  balls  will  tear, 
And  work  them  death  and  sorrow ! 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


237 


And  here’s  the  gallant  company 
That  always  forward  ran  on 
So  boldly  on  the  enemy, 

With  our  brave  iron  cannon! 

hi. 

I’ve  brought  a wreath  of  shamrocks  here, 
In  memory  of  our  own  land,  — 

’Tis  withered  like  that  island  drear,  — 
That  sorrowful  and  lone  land; 

I’ll  hang  it  nigh  our  cannon’s  mouth, 

To  whet  our  memories  fairly, 

And  there’s  no  flower  in  all  the  south 
Could  deck  that  gun  so  rarely. 

And  here’s  the  gallant  company 
That  soon  shall  rush  each  man  on, 
And  plough  the  Saxon  enemy 
With  our  brave  iron  cannon! 


IV. 

At  Limerick  how  it  made  them  run, 

The  Dutchman  and  his  crew,  boys ; 

’Twas  then  I made  this  gallant  gun 

To  plough  them  through  and  through,  boys; 
And  since  that  day  in  foreign  lands 
It  roared  triumphant  ever  — 

It  blazed  away,  yet  here  it  stands, 

Where  foeman’s  foot  shall  never! 

And  here’s  the  gallant  company 
That  soon  shall  rush  each  man  on, 

And  break  and  strew  the  enemy 
With  our  brave  iron  cannon! 


v. 

’Tis  dinted  well  from  mouth  to  breech 
With  many  a battle  furrow; 

A fitting  sermon  it  will  preach 
At  Fontenoy  to-morrow. 

Then  never  let  your  spirits  sink, 

But  stand  around,  each  man  on 
This  foreign  slope,  and  we  will  drink 
One  brave  health  to  our  cannon! 


238 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


And  here’s  the  gallant  company 
That  soon  shall  rush  each  man  on, 
And  plough  the  Saxon  enemy 
With  our  brave  iron  cannon ! 


MY  STEED  WAS  WEARY. 

Air — “’Twas  early,  early,  all  in  the  Spring.” 


I. 

My  steed  was  weary  upon  the  hill, 

While  the  night  came  down  and  the  winds  blew  chill 
But  I thought  of  thee  by  the  distant  Nore, 

And  my  heart  was  nerved  for  the  way  once  more. 


ii. 

My  steed  was  weary  beside  the  wood, 

And  I knew  his  weakness  to  swim  the  flood; 
But  I thought  of  thee  by  the  distant  Nore, 
And  I spurred  him  safe  to  the  other  shore. 

hi. 

My  steed  was  weary  beside  the  fen ; 

He  saw  the  danger  and  feared  it  then ; 

But  I thought  of  thee  by  the  distant  Nore, 
And  safely,  safely  I brought  him  o’er. 


IY. 

My  steed  dropt  down  by  the  mountain  lake, 
And  I slept  by  his  side  in  the  wild  ash  brake, 
And  I dreamt  of  thee  by  the  distant  Nore, 

Till  the  morning’s  splendors  came  shining  o’er. 


v. 

Then  up  I stood  with  my  steed  again, 

And  I reached  my  home  in  the  lowland  plain. 
And  my  thoughts  of  thee  by  the  distant  Nore 
Were  sweeter  and  brighter  than  e’er  before. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


239 


FAR  AWAY. 

Air  — 44  I might  have  got  an  Earl.’* 

i. 

Along  the  winding  river 
The  wintry  tempests  blow ; 

The  sear  leaves  glance  and  quiver 
Within  the  wave  below; 

The  sun  is  redly  sinking 
Beyond  the  mountains  gray, 

And  I am  ever  thinking 
Of  her  that’s  far  away. 

ii. 

Her  eyes  are  like  the  violets 
In  some  green  summer  dell ; 

The  rose  of  Lene’s  bright  islets 
Her  lips  can  ne’er  excel ; 

That  wild  lake  of  the  mountain 
Its  depths  no  man  can  say ; 

My  love’s  as  deep  a fountain 
For'her  that’s  far  away. 

hi. 

O,  were  I like  the  earls 

That  reigned  o’er  Desmond’s  towers, 

Her  hair  should  shine  with  pearls, 
Instead  of  fading  flowers  ; 

And  robes  of  queenly  splendor 
Her  fair  form  should  array, 

My  love’s  so  true  and  tender 
For  her  that’s  far  away. 


IV. 

O,  could  you  see  her  golden 
Bright  locks,  and  form  so  fine, 
You’d  think  some  goddess  olden 
Had  witched  those  eyes  of  thine ; 
And  while  the  sun  is  sinking, 

I’m  spellbound  day  by  day, 

For,  O,  I’m  ever  thinking 
Of  her  that’s  far  away. 


240 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


I’LL  DECK  HIS  GRAVE  WITH  FLOWERS. 

Air — “ Ingheen’s  Dubh’s  Lament.” 


i. 

The  sun  pours  down  his  light 
On  flower  and  blooming  tree, 

And  heaven  and  earth  are  bright, 
But  all  seems  dark  to  me ; 

No  comfort  have  I known, 

But  through  the  long  day’s  hours 
To  sigh  and  weep  alone, 

And  deck  his  grave  with  flowers. 

ii. 

Long,  long  I fed  love’s  flame 
With  hopeful  heart  and  high, 

Till  from  the  wars  he  came  — 

But,  O,  he  came  to  die ! 

Now,  hope  will  ne’er  return, 

And  dark  the  future  lowers, 

And  I can  nought  but  mourn, 

And  deck  his  grave  with  flowers. 

iii. 

’Tis  at  my  true  love’s  feet 
I think  the  rose  looks  best; 

The  shamrocks  smile  most  sweet 
Above  his  Irish  breast ; 

And  at  his  headstone  twine 
The  fairest  myrtle  bowers, 

Where  still  I mourn  and  pine, 

And  deck  his  grave  with  flowers. 

IY. 

’Tis  by  yon  abbey  wall 
My  soldier  love  lies  low, 

Where  wave  the  yew  trees  tall, 

And  mournful  breezes  blow ; 

And  there  till  death  I’ll  keep 

My  watch  through  sun  or  showers, 
And  sigh  alone,  and  weep, 

And  deck  his  grave  with  flowers. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


241 


YOU’RE  A DEAR  LAND  TO  ME. 

Air  — “ The  Blackbird.” 


I. 

There’s  a stream  in  Glenlara,  whose  silvery  fountain 
Leaps  up  into  life  where  the  heather-bells  bloom, 

That  steals  through  the  moorland  and  winds  round  the  mountain, 
Now  laughing  in  sunlight,  now  weeping  in  gloom; 

And  by  its  merry  dancing,  a rural  sight  entrancing, 

Erom  out  the  greenwoods  glancing,  my  home  you  once  could 
see ; 

Now  an  exile  far  away  from  that  home  I sigh  and  say,  — 

O,  green-hilled,  pleasant  Erin,  you’re  a dear  land  to  me ! * 


ii. 

There’s  a tree  by  that  river  in  bright  beauty  shining, 

With  green  leaves  and  blossoms  all  brilliant  and  gay, 

With  the  birds  in  its  branches  wild  melodies  twining, 

Where  I sat  with  my  love  on  each  blithe  summer  day, 

When  the  sunset  clouds  were  glowing,  and  the  gentle  kine  were 
lowing, 

And  the  perfumed  airs  were  blowing  round  that  bonnie,  bloom- 
ing tree ; 

Tree  or  love  I’ll  ne’er  see  more  by  that  murmuring  river  shore, 
O,  green-hilled,  pleasant  Erin,  you’re  a dear  land  to  me ! 

hi. 

Now  I sit  where  the  camp-fire  is  brilliantly  burning, 

A soldier,  far,  far  from  thy  green  shore  away, 

And  I dream  of  my  love  at  each  evening’s  returning, 

But  I think  upon  thee  in  the  roar  of  the  fray, 

And  of  our  green  flags  streaming,  and  bayonets  proudly  gleaming, 
Some  day  thy  shore  redeeming  from  the  Saxon’s  tyranny; 
Then  I ne’er  regret  for  you  a freeman’s  sword  I drew, 

Though  green-hilled,  pleasant  Erin,  you’re  a dear  land  to  me ! 

* Meaning,  according  to  the  idiom,  that  he  paid  dearly  for  his  devotion 
to  Ireland. 


16 


242 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


THE  WHIG’S  LAMENTATION. 

Air  — “ Granua  Weal.” 


In  ermine  and  scarlet  I sported  my  wig, 

While  Ireland  was  blessed  by  the  rule  of  the  Whig, 
And  if  Paddy  complained,  then  I ordered  the  soap 
To  smooth  for  his  neck  a good  tenpenny  rope ! 


ii. 

Now  the  times  they  are  changed,  and  the  Tory  is  in, 

And  the  Whig  is  kicked  down  to  the  Father  of  Sin ; 

But  if  I had  my  wish,  by  the  toe  of  the  Pope, 

I’d  give  Paddy  and  Tory  both  plenty  of  rope ! 

hi. 

Mavrone ! while  we  could,  how  we  feathered  our  nest 
With  sinecures,  pensions,  and  places  the  best! 

Now  we  itch  for  our  flesh-pots  — in  darkness  we  grope 
For  the  haft  of  the  hatchet  and  coil  of  the  rope ! 

IV. 

They  mark  down  the  Whigs,  “ Bloody,  brutal,  and  base,” 
But  that  phrase  of  contempt  bears  the  lie  on  its  face, 

For  what  panacea  for  Paddy  can  cope 

With  our  poorhouse,  our  prison,  our  gibbet,  and  rope? 


v. 

I hate  Irish  Paddy,  the  Tory  I hate, 

May  the  de’il  in  his  wisdom  give  both  the  same  fate ; 
May  both  to  his  regions  the  same  time  elope 
From  a twenty-foot  gibbet  and  tenpenny  rope ! 


VI. 

Now,  to  conclude  and  to  finish  my  song, 

May  the  Lord  reinstate  us  before  it  is  long, 

And  make  Paddy  rebel,  just  to  give  us  full  scope 
For  our  famed  panacea  — the  gibbet  and  rope ! 


243 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 
(Paddy,  loquitur.') 

VII. 

“ Kebel ! ” Faith  we  will ; soon  our  green  flag  we’ll  fly, 
And  the  fires  of  our  camps  shall  flash  up  to  the  sky ; 
Then,  chips  of  one  block,  Whig  and  Tory,  we  hope 
To  pay  back  on  the  nail  for  your  gibbet  and  rope ! 


THE  MOUNTAIN  ASH. 

Air  — “ The  Green  Ash  Tree.” 

I. 

The  mountain  ash  blooms  in  the  wild, 

Or  droops  above  the  wandering  rill ; 

You  ne’er  can  see 
A fairer  tree, 

But  I know  one  dear  maiden  mild 
With  witching  form  more  lovely  still. 

ii. 

The  mountain  ash  has  berries  fair, 

The  reddest  in  the  woodlands  green ; 

Sweet  lips  I know 
With  redder  glow 

Than  ever  lit  those  berries  rare  — 

The  red  lips  of  my  bosom’s  queen. 

hi. 

The  mountain  ash  has  leaves  of  gold 

When  autumn  browns  the  steep  hill’s  side ; 
Of  locks  I dream 
With  brighter  gleam 

Of  yellow  in  their  braid  and  fold 
Than  e’er  tinged  leaf  in  woodland  wide. 

IV. 

The  mountain  ash  in  winter  sear 

Stands  bravely  up  when  wild  winds  blow ; 
So  love  shall  stand, 

Serene  and  bland, 

Between  me  and  my  Ellen  dear, 

A fadeless  flower  in  weal  or  woe. 


244  SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


THE  ENSIGN  AND  HIS  BANNER. 
A Brigade  Song. 

Air  — “ The  Green  Flag.” 


I. 

They  said  I was  too  young  to  seek 
For  fame  or  martial  glory ; 

They  said  I was  too  slight  and  weak 
To  brave  the  battle  gory ; 

But  years  have  passed,  and  I have  got 
A soldier’s  mien  and  manner, 

And  borne  through  many  a storm  of  shot 
My  conquering  Irish  banner. 

ii. 

The  bloody  breach  of  strong  Namur, 

It  was  the  first  I mounted, 

And  many  a comrade’s  corse,  be  sure, 
Within  that  breach  we  counted ; 

There  placed  we  high  the  Fleur-de-lis , 
And  Bill,*  the  old  Dutch  trepanner, 

As  fast  he  fled,  looked  back  on  thee, 

Ear  higher  still,  my  banner ! 

hi. 

And  since  that  mighty  day  of  death, 

With  honor  still  I’ve  borne  it; 

It  waved  in  many  a battle’s  breath, 

And  many  a shot  has  torn  it ; 

It  saw  on  Steinkirk’s  fiery  plain 
Brave  Sarsfield  beat  the  planner 

Of  all  our  woe,  Dutch  Bill,  again, 

My  glorious  Irish  banner ! 


IV. 

I had  a sweetheart  in  Ireland 
Before  I crossed  the  water ; 

My  comrades  say  some  Saxon  band 
Has  drenched  her  home  in  slaughter ; 

* The  Irish  nickname  for  King  William  the  Third. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS.  245 

Ah  ! cold  she  sleeps  — God  rest  her  soul ! — * 

Beside  the  Banks  of  Anner, 

And  now  I’ve  nought,  as  seasons  roll, 

To  love,  but  my  green  banner ! 


v. 

And  now,  where’er  my  banner  wave, 
I’ll  think  on  that  sad  river, 

Where  lies  my  true-love’s  gory  grave, 
And  fight  for  vengeance  ever ; — 
With  Ireland’s  woes  in  memory, 

Some  brave  revenge  I’ll  plan  her, 
And  when  I fall,  my  shroud  shall  be 
My  glorious  Irish  banner ! 


THE  COCK  AND  THE  SPARROW. 

Air— “ The  Game  Cock.” 

I. 

One  morn,  at  the  sack  of  Cragnour, 

A cock  and  a sparrow  were  speaking, 

While  ’neath  where  they  sat  on  the  tower 
The  Crop-ears  their  fury  were  wreaking  — • 

Were  wreaking  in  blood,  fire,  and  smoke  — 

“Ah!  the  castle  is  ta’en,  bone  and  marrow, 

And  my  poor  Irish  heart  it  is  broke,” 

Said  the  brave  jolly  cock  to  the  sparrow. 

ii. 

“ For  the  Crop-ears  will  have  us  full  soon, 

And  our  bed  will  be  no  bed  of  roses  : 

They  will  starve  us  right  dead  to  the  tune 

Of  a psalm  that  they’ll  twang  through  their  noses  ; 
Never  more  shall  I crow  in  the  hall, 

For  the  gloom  there  my  bosom  would  harrow  — 
May  the  fiend  whip  them  off,  psalms  and  all,” 

Said  the  brave  jolly  cock  to  the  sparrow. 


246 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


ill. 

“ ’Tis  certain  the  castle  they’ve  got, 

And  ’tis  sure  that  they’ll  slay  all  that’s  in  it ; 

But  as  victory  is  theirs,  and  what  not, 

You’re  expected  to  crow  like  a linnet!  ” 

Cried  the  sparrow,  with  voice  sad  and  low  : — 

But  “ I’d  rather  my  grave  cold  and  narrow, 

Than  at  Puritan  triumph  to  crow,” 

Said  the  brave  jolly  cock  to  the  sparrow. 

iv. 

“No  more,”  said  the  sparrow,  “we’ll  see 
Irish  gallants  come  in  late  and  early ; 

No.  more  shall  they  hunt  o’er  the  lea, 

When  the  sweet  autumn  wind  shakes  the  barley ; 
Never  more  shall  they  dance  on  the  bawn, 

Or  ride  from  the  gate  like  an  arrow ! ” 

“Ah!  no  more  shall  I wake  them  at  dawn,” 

Said  the  brave  jolly  cock  to  the  sparrow. 

v. 

But  the  chief  of  Cragnour  soon  returned, 

And  the  Crop-ears  right  sorely  he  hammered; 
Then  the  sparrow  with  gleefulness  burned, 

And  “ Hurra  for  my  Irish  ! ” he  clamored;  — 

And  “Hurra  for  the  chief  of  Cragnour! 

There  is  joy  through  my  flesh,  bone,  and  marrow 
Bor  his  victory  I’ll  crow  hour  by  hour,” 

Said  the  brave  jolly  cock  to  the  sparrow. 


MY  GERALDINE. 

Air— “ He  is  Gone.” 


1. 

He  has  come  back  the  same 
To  this  glad  heart  of  mine, 
In  his  power  and  his  fame, 
With  his  glances  divine ; 

O ! tell  me  the  story 
Of  his  triumph  and  glory 
On  the  field  of  Knocklory, 
My  brave  Geraldine. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


247 


ii. 

Kode  he  up  to  the  gate, 

This  fond  lover  of  mine, 

In  his  armor  of  plate, 

And  his  trappings  so  fine ; 
And  he  looked  all  so  grandly, 
And  he  smiled  all  so  blandly, 
And  he  kissed  me  so  fondly, 

My  brave  Geraldine. 

in. 

Sun  or  moon,  starry  sphere, 
Care  I never  to  shine, 

While  my  true  love  is  near, 
With  his  glances  divine ; 

Sun  or  moon  ne’er  could  render 
To  my  fond  heart  such  splendor 
As  his  love  looks  so  tender, 

My  brave  Geraldine. 


IV. 

In  the  bright,  festive  hour, 

When  they  quaff  the  red  wine, 
I will  steal  to  my  bower, 

With  this  gay  harp  of  mine, 
And  I’ll  banish  all  sadness, 

And  I’ll  pour  out  my  gladness 
In  a strain  of  fond  madness, 

My  brave  Geraldine. 


v. 

I will  sing  how  he  won 
By  yon  dark  hills  of  pine, 
Each  Sassenach  gun, 

And  each  banner  so  fine ; — 
How  his  foes  fled  before  him, 
How  gallant  he  bore  him, 
With  his  Irish  flag  o’er  him, 
My  brave  Geraldine. 


248 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


THE  MERRY  CHRISTMAS  FIRE. 

Aik  — “ The  first  night  I was  married.” 


In  summer  time  my  heart  is  glad, 

In  autumn  low  or  gay, 

But  there  is  sweet,  and  nought  of  sad. 
When  Christmas  comes  alway ; 

And  never  bliss  more  sweet  than  this 
Can  happy  man  desire, 

Than  sit  a-near  his  true  love  dear 
By  the  merry  Christmas  fire. 


ii. 

In  summer  time  the  vales  are  bright 
With  glancing  leaf  and  flower, 

And  autumn  spreads  its  amber  light 
On  many  a lovely  bower ; 

And  sweetly  sing  the  birds  in  spring, 

Like  tune  of  fairy  lyre ; 

But  far  more  dear,  my  true  love  near, 

And  the  merry  Christmas  fire. 

hi. 

From  the  Christmas  fire  the  gay  flames  dart, 
And  glance,  and  glow,  and  whirl, 

Like  the  fire  of  love  within  my  heart 
For  my  own  sweet  Irish  girl. 

O ! gladdest  boon,  to  sit  full  soon, 

Where  young  heart  ne’er  could  tire. 

All  fondly  near  my  true  love  dear, 

By  the  merry  Christmas  fire. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


249 


ADDRESS  TO  AN  OLD  PIPE. 


Old  friend,  thy  blackened,  shining  bowl 
Brings  feelings  strange,  beyond  control, 

For  memory  unwinds  her  scroll, 

And  sends  to  me 

Sweet  thoughts,  that  crowd  my  brightening  soul, 
Like  song-birds  on  a leafy  woodland  tree. 


ii. 

I look  across  a bridge  of  years, 

That  ’tween  me  and  the  past  uprears 
Its  arches  washed  by  blood  and  tears,  — 
Ireland’s  and  mine,  — 

And  there  the  land  of  youth  appears, 

In  all  its  life  and  loveliness  divine ! 

hi. 

I see  the  path  the  mountains  through, 

Where  first  thy  solace  sweet  I knew, 

And  rolled  a cloud  of  vapor  blue 
Up  to  the  sun ; 

And  talked  with  my  companion  true 

Of  wealth,  and  love,  and  honors  to  be  won. 


IV. 

Again  on  me  his  honest  eyes 

Look  kindly  thought  serene,  and  wise; 

Again  the  lark  sings  in  the  skies, 

And  high  and  hoar 
Old  Gaultee’s  summits  towering  rise, 

O’er  mead,  and  wood,  and  glittering  streamlet’s  shore. 


v. 

And  now  our  fortune’s  still  the  same ; 

We’ve  won  but  little  wealth  or  fame, 

Yet  we  can  boast  an  honest  name, 

Hearts  free  from  guile, 

And  comrade,  I at  least  can  claim 

A woman’s  faithful  heart  and  loving  smile. 


250 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


VI. 

Old  friend,  since  first  thy  blackened  clay 
Was  white  as  daisies  of  the  May, 

I’ve  spent  full  many  a rueful  day 
Of  care  and  grief; 

Yet  oft  you  charmed  my  cares  away, 

And  soothed  my  soul,  and  brought  my  heart  relief. 

VII. 

When  early  love  first  falsely  broke 
Its  promise,  from  the  dream  I woke  — 

Keen  though  I felt  its  cruel  stroke, 

I drowned  despair 

In  warm  wrreaths  of  thy  curling  smoke, 

And  banished  from  my  heart  corroding  care. 

VIII. 

When  fortune  whelmed  her  thunder  loud, 

Malignant  on  my  head,  I vowed 
To  face  the  tempest,  fearless,  proud, 

And  found  a balm, 

Old  friend,  within  thy  perfumed  cloud, 

Till  fortune  smiled  again,  and  all  was  calm. 


IX. 

When  friendship’s  counterfeit  grew  rust, 
And  rotten  hearts  betrayed  their  trust, 

And  he  whom  once  I loved  the  most 
Paid  back  to  me 

Fraternal  love  in  dross  and  dust, 

A refuge  still,  old  friend,  I found  in  thee. 


x. 

When  manhood’s  blood  coursed  through  my  veins, 
I roamed  o’er  Ireland’s  hills  and  plains, 

I loved  her  well,  I mourned  her  chains, 

Her  cruel  lot ; 

Your  vapor  soothed  a patriot’s  pains, 

And  calmed  my  heart  a while,  but  cured  it  not. 


XI. 

For  who  that  deemed  himself  a man, 
Since  this  old  troublous  earth  began 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


251 


To  roll  through  space  its  mighty  span 
Of  changeful  years, 

Could  see  his  country  ’neath  the  ban 
Of  tyranny,  and  feel  not  at  her  tears  ? 

XII. 

But  come,  old  friend,  I’ve  preached  too  long, 
And  mine  should  be  another  song, 

A freeborn  pean,  loud  and  strong, 

Of  happier  times, 

When  right  shall  be  where  all  is  wrong, 

And  sorrow  cease,  as  I now  end  my  rhymes ! 


MY  TRUE  LOVE  BRIGHT. 

Air  — “ The  Summer  is  come.” 


i. 

The  winds  were  stayed  in  their  endless  flight, 
O’er  storied  valley  and  mountain  height, 

As  I sat  me  down  with  a wild  delight, 

To  think  an  hour  on  my  true  love  bright, 


ii. 

My  true  love  bright  dwells  far  away ; 

My  true  love  hears  not  her  minstrel’s  lay ; 

Yet  I know,  O ! I know  that  she  ne’er  will  stray 
From  the  love  she  plighted  that  winter  day. 

hi. 

The  glittering  stars  that  hang  on  high 
Have  beams  like  the  beams  of  my  true  love’s  eye ; 
When  I speak  to  my  love,  her  words  reply 
Like  an  angel’s  song  in  the  crystal  sky. 


IY. 

The  lily  flower  by  the  wave-lit  strand 
Is  white,  like  the  white  of  my  true  love’s  hand, 
And  a rose  doth  smile  in  some  golden  land 
Like  the  smiles  of  my  love,  so  sweet  and  bland. 


252 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


y. 

In  Paradise,  by  a blest  stream’s  shore, 

The  amaranth  bloometh  forevermore ; 

That  flower  will  wither  and  die  before 
I cease  to  love,  or  my  maid  adore. 

VI. 

And  golden  noon  and  starred  midnight 
Go  my  thoughts  to  her  like  the  fleet  wind’s  flight ; 
For  evermore  ivitli  a wild  delight 
I fondly  think  on  my  true  love  bright. 


THE  PETTICOAT. 

Air  — “ I am  a Roving  Doctor.” 


Since  the  days  of  Trojan  Paris, 

When  beauteous  Helen  was  the  toast, 

O’er  lords  and  mighty  monarchs, 

The  women,  they  l^ive  ruled  the  roast ; 

And  why  should  Croppies  hang  behind 
In  gallantry  such  men  of  note  ? 

On  Irish  ground,  in  Irish  wind, 

We  spread  our  flag — a Petticoat ! 

For  we  were  Croppy  heroes, 

With  pike  in  hand  and  flag  afloat, 
Who  fought  and  bled  for  freedom 
Beneath  that  flag — the  Petticoat! 

ii. 

This  Petticoat  was  bnoidered 
By  fingers  fair  as  fair  could  be, 

And  once  its  folds  fell  over 
A gleaming  ankle  gracefully ; 

A milk-white  foot,  that  stept  the  glades 
As  light  as  fairies  of  the  moat,  — 

Young  Nora’s,  pride  of  Wexford  maids, 

This  tyrant-conquering  Petticoat ! 

And  we  were  Croppy  heroes, 

With  pike  in  hand  and  flag  afloat, 
With  stains  of  blood  upon  it  — 

This  flag  — the  conquering  Petticoat ! 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


253 


III. 

’Twas  on  a summer  morning, 

As  we  marched  down  the  dewy  hill, 

We  found  our  bright-haired  Nora 
Upon  the  wayside,  stark  and  still ; 

A yeoman’s  bullet  in  her  breast, 

A sabre  wound  across  her  throat  — 

’Twas  then  we  made,  with  vengeful  zest, 

Our  banner  of  her  Petticoat ! 

For  we  were  Cropp}^  heroes, 

With  pike  in  hand  and  flag  afloat, 
Determined  to  avenge  her 

Beneath  that  flag  — the  Petticoat ! 

IV. 

The  blood-spots  scarce  were  faded 
Ere  we  their  crimson  did  renew ; 

Upon  the  hill  of  Oulart, 

Her  murderers,  every  man  we  slew ; 

From  field  to  field,  from  town  to  town, 

In  England’s  reddest  blood  we  wrote 
The  story  of  that  Kirtle  Gown, 

The  blood-stained,  conquering  Petticoat ! 

For  we  were  Croppy  heroes, 

With  pike  in  hand  and  flag  afloat  — 

The  terror  of  our  tyrants, 

Beneath  that  flag  — the  Petticoat ! 

v. 

And  if  great  lords  and  monarclis 
Are  so  polite  to  womankind, 

The  world  for  our  devotion 

To  Nora’s  skirts  no  fault  can  find,  — 

If  England’s  king  her  life  could  take, 

Could  condescend  to  cut  her  throat,* 

Brave  boys,  it  was  no  shame  to  make 
Our  banner  of  her  Petticoat ! 

For  we  were  Croppy  heroes, 

With  pike  in  hand  and  flag  afloat, 

And  bravely  we  avenged  her, 

Beneath  that  flag  — the  Petticoat ! 

* The  warlike  old  Croppy  means  that  the  king  cut  her  throat  by  deputy, 
which  was  all  the  same  to  poor  Norah.  Theig  the  Croppy’s  relation 
will  be  received,  I suppose,  only  as  tradition,  but  the  Petticoat  banner  is 
mentioned  in  the  histories  of  the  period. 


254 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


VI. 

Then  all  you  roving  heroes, 

Attendto  Theig  the  Croppy’s  song; 

May  God  preserve  old  Ireland, 

And  Freedom’s  rule  therein  prolong ! 

May  tyrants  there  who  spoil  the  land 
All  sink  in  black  perdition’s  boat, 

And  may  it  rise  to  great  command 
The  influence  of  the  Petticoat ! 

And  we  were  Croppy  heroes, 

With  pike  in  hand  and  flag  afloat, 
Who  taught  our  blood-stained  tyrants 
The  Lesson  of  the  Petticoat ! 


MARJORY  LE  POER. 

Air  — “ Marjory.” 

I. 

I bear  my  fortune  on  my  back, 

A soldier’s  belt,  a soldier’s  jack, 

And,  cloud  or  sunshine  on  my  track, 

I ride  by  mount  and  shore ; 

And  ever  as  my  hawk  I fly, 

Or  chase  the  stag  o’er  mountains  high, 

I think  upon  the  laughing  eye 
Of  Marjory  le  Poer ! 

ii. 

#I  wander  through  the  mountain  cooms, 

And  lie  amid  the  heather  blooms, 

Where  ’mid  the  flowers  the  wild  bee  hums, 
With  gay  skies  laughing  o’er, 

And  gaze  into  the  blue,  and  there 
Build  golden  castles  in  the  air, 

Where  reigns  my  queen  of  beauty  rare, 

My  Marjory  le  Poer ! 

hi. 

With  plume  and  baldrick  bright  displayed, 
With  musketoon  and  flashing  blade, 

In  deadly  war’s  stern  ranks  arrayed, 

I dash  through  dust  arid  gore ; 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


255 


And  ever  as  the  surging  fight, 

Loud  thundering  rolls  from  height  to  height, 
I think  upon  the  glances  bright 
Of  Marjory  le  Poerl 

IV. 

And  thus  in  peace,  and  thus  in  war, 

In  joy  at  home,  or  wandering  far 
Beneath  some  lonely  foreign  star, 

By  plain  or  mountain  hoar, 

All  Nature  sings  one  ceaseless  tune, 

In  winter  wild  or  summer  noon  — 

My  gem  of  gems,  my  rose  of  June, 

My  Marjory  le  Poer  I 


I SIT  BENEATH  THE  SUNSET  SKIES. 

Air  — “ Come,  come  with  me.” 


I sit  beneath  the  sunset  skies, 

Within  the  woodlands  fair, 

And  look  into  my  Mary’s  eyes 
For  true  love  shining  there ; 

I clasp  her  hand  till  daylight  dies 
O’er  hill  and  golden  sea, 

And  moonlight  shines  through  th’  ancient  pines 
Upon  my  love  and  me. 

ii. 

In  winter  wild  dark  gleams  the  sloe 
Upon  the  whitened  bough  ; 

Her  raven  locks  as  darkly  flow 
Around  her  lovely  brow : 

The  morning  star’s  soft  virgin  glow 
Within  her  eyes  I see, 

While  moonlight  shines  through  th’  ancient  pines, 
Upon  my  love  and  me. 

hi. 

I stray  through  wildwood  glades  afar 
To  think  on  her  alone ; 


256 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


I sit  me  where  the  bright  flowers  are, 

And  make  my  heart  her  throne ; 

And  I will  love  while  gleams  the  star, 

Or  leaves  grow  on  the  tree, 

While  moonlight  shines  through  tlT  ancient  pines, 
Upon  my  love  and  me. 


A REAPING  WE  WILL  GO. 

Air  — “The  Jolly  Companie.” 


It  was  a man  of  W exford, 

With  valor  in  his  eye, 

That  sat  upon  a tumbril, 

And  that  raised  his  voice  on  high, 

And  sang  this  song  of  Freedom, 

With  his  brown  face  all  aglow : — 

“The  autumn  it  is  coming, 

And  a reaping  we  will  go ! 

And  a reaping  we  will  go 
Where  the  drums  and  trumpets  play, 
And  the  cannons  roar  from  shore  to  shore, 
And  rifles  flash  ! — hurrah ! 


ii. 

“Amid  the  Irish  mountains, 

In  Irish  vale  and  glen, 

Say  what  shall  be  the  harvest 
Of  the  brave,  united  men? 

The  scarlet  Saxon  soldiers, 

All  ranged  in  a row, 

Shall  be  our  swaths  of  corn, 

When  a reaping  we  will  go ! 

And  a reaping  we  will  go 
Where  the  drums  and  trumpets  play, 
And  the  cannons  roar  from  shore  to  shore, 
And  rifles  flash ! — hurrah ! 

hi. 

“ And  who  shall  smile  upon  us, 

And  bless  our  flashing  arms  ? 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


257 


And  who  shall  be  our  Queen  of  hearts 
In  battle’s  loud  alarms  ? 

Our  dear,  beloved  Ireland, 

No  other  queen  we’ll  know. 

And  we’ll  die  for  her  or  conquer, 

When  a reaping  we  will  go ! 

And  a reaping  we  will  go 
Where  the  drums  and  trumpets  play, 
And  the  cannons  roar  from  shore  to  shore, 
And  rifles  flash  ! — hurrah ! 


IV. 

“ And  where  shall  be  the  harvest-home 
On  our  last  reaping  morn, 

When  the  shamrock  wreaths  of  victory 
Our  happy  brows  adorn  ? 

In  Dublin’s  Royal  Castle 
We’ll  make  a gallant  show, 

With  our  Green  Flag  o’er  it  flying, 

When  a reaping  we  will  go ! 

And  a reaping  we  will  go 
Where  the  drums  and  trumpets  play, 
And  the  cannons  roar  from  shore  to  shore, 
And  rifles  flash  J — hurrah ! 


Y. 

“ Then  all  through  holy  Ireland 
Shall  never  more  be  seen 
The  gibbet,  rack,  and  prison 
For  the  wearing  of  the  Green; 

So  we’ll  strike  the  heated  iron 
While  we  find  it  in  a glow, 

And  we’ll  soon  win  back  our  freedom 
When  a reaping  we  will  go ! 

And  a reaping  we  will  go 
Where  the  drums  and  trumpets  play, 
And  the  cannons  roar  from  shore  to  shore, 
And  rifles  flash ! — hurrah ! ” 

17 


258 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS, 


THE  RED  LUSMORE. 

Air  — “ The  blooming  Meadow.” 


The  snow  is  on  the  mountains  high, 
The  bloom  has  left  the  heather, 

But  laughing  spring  will  soon  be  nigh, 
And  summer’s  golden  weather; 

Then  many  a vale  we’ll  wander  o’er, 
Whose  streams  leap  glad  and  fleetly, 
And  many  a glen  of  red  lusmore,* 
That  shines  in  June  so  sweetly. 


ii. 

What  makes  me  love  the  lusmores  gay, 
With  all  their  bright  bells  round  them? 

My  dear  one’s  lips  are  red  as  they, 

And  sweet  as  bee  e’er  found  them ; 

And  O ! it  shines  by  torrents  hoar, 

In  haunts  of  sprite  and  fairy, 

Where  many  an  hour,  in  days  of  yore, 

I dreamt  of  one  like  Mary. 

hi. 

While  purple  decks  its  gorgeous  bells 
I’ll  never  seek  a new  love ; 

In  summer  time,  where’er  it  dwells, 

I’ll  wander  with  my  true  love ; 

And  aye  I’ll  kiss  her  o’er  and  o’er, 

And  vow  my  fond  vows  meetly, 

In  fairy  glens  of  red  lusmore, 

That  shines  in  June  so  sweetly. 

* Lusmore , i.  e.,  the  great  herb,  the  Foxglove. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


259 


THE  PEOPLE. 

Air— “ All  the  way  to  Galway.” 


i. 

A mighty  Voice  sang  in  mine  ear, 

With  tone  prophetic,  sweet  and  clear,  — 
“Bright  Freedom’s  happy  day  is  near 
For  Ireland  and  her  People  ! ” 

The  People  ! The  People  ! 

God  bless  the  Irish  People ! 
Through  all  their  years 
Of  blood  and  tears, 

Old  Ireland’s  gallant  People  ! 

ii. 

With  gibbet,  fire,  and  fetter  girth, 

With  bloody  wars  and  famine  dearth, 

Our  tyrants  strove  from  off  the  earth 
To  blot  old  Ireland’s  People ! 

The  People  ! The  People ! 

But  firm  as  Shandon  steeple 
Upon  its  rock, 

They  stood  each  shock, 

Old  Ireland’s  gallant  People ! 

hi. 

For  as  the  oak  tree  by  the  glen, 

Shorn  by  the  axe,  springs  up  again 
From  deepest  roots  beyond  our  ken, 

So  flourished  Ireland’s  People  ! 

The  People ! The  People  ! 

Though  wars  cut  down  the  People, 
Each  springing  root 
Bore  tenfold  fruit,  — 

Old  Ireland’s  gallant  People ! 

IV. 

Then,  brothers,  here’s  to  our  dear  land ! 
With  freemen  may  her  shores  be  manned! 
And  down  with  England’s  gory  hand, 


260 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


And  up  with  Ireland’s  People  ! 

The  People  ! The  People  ! 

Like  bells  from  Shandon  steeple, 
With  ringing  chime, 

Sing  out  sublime 
Hurrah ! for  Ireland’s  People ! 


THE  BANKS  OF  ANNER. 

Air  — “ The  leaves  are  green  in  Aherloe.” 


i. 

In  purple  robes  old  Sliavnamon 
Towers  monarch  of  the  mountains, 

The  first  to  catch  the  smiles  of  dawn, 

With  all  his  woods  and  fountains ; — 

His  streams  dance  down  by  tower  and  town, 
But  none  since  Time  began  her 
Met  mortal  sight  so  pure  and  bright 
As  winding,  wandering  Anner. 


ii. 

In  hillside’s  gleam  or  woodland’s  gloom, 
O’er  fairy  height  and  hollow, 

Upon  her  banks  gay  flowerets  bloom, 
Where’er  her  course  I follow. 

And  halls  of  pride  tower  o'er  her  tide, 
And  gleaming  bridges  span  her, 

As,  laughing  gay,  she  winds  away, 

The  gentle,  murmuring  Anner. 

hi. 

There  gallant  men,  for  freedom  born, 
With  friendly  grasp  will  meet  you ; 
There  lovely  maids,  as  bright  as  morn, 
With  sunny  smiles  will  greet  you ; 
And  there  they  strove  to  raise  above 
The  Red,  Green  Ireland’s  banner  — 
There  yet  its  fold  they’ll  see  unrolled 
Upon  the  banks  of  Anner. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


IV. 

’Tis  there  we’ll  stand,  with  bosoms  proud, 
True  soldiers  of  our  sireland, 

When  Freedom’s  wind  blows  strong  and  loud, 
And  floats  the  flag  of  Ireland. 

Let  tyrants  quake,  and  doubly  shake 
Each  traitor  and  trepanner, 

When  once  we  raise  our  camp-fire’s  blaze 
Upon  the  banks  of  Anner. 

v. 

O God ! be  with  the  good  old  days, 

The  days  so  light  and  airy, 

When  to  blithe  friends  I sang  my  lays 
In  gallant,  gay  Tipperary ; 

When  fair  maids’  sighs  and  witching  eyes 
Made  my  young  heart  the  planner 
Of  castles  rare,  built  in  the  air, 

Upon  the  banks  of  Anner ! 

VI. 

The  morning  sun  may  fail  to  show 
His  light  the  earth  illuming ; 

Old  Sliavnamon  to  blush  and  glow 
In  autumn’s  purple  blooming; 

And  shamrocks  green  no  more  be  seen, 

And  breezes  cease  to  fan  her, 

Ere  I forget  the  friends  I met 
Upon  the  banks  of  Anner ! 


GRA  GAL  MACHREE. 

Air  — “ Ne’er  wed  an  old  Man.” 


When  morning  discloses  its  light  on  the  roses, 

Upon  them  reposes  the  sweet  honey  dew ; 

Like  buds  of  their  fairest,  thy  lips,  O,  my  dearest! 

Have  honey  the  rarest  to  sweeten  them  too  : 

Thine  eyes  they  are  brighter  than  stars  of  the  night, 
Than  April  skies’  light,  or  than  gems  of  the  sea; 
Thy  neck’s  like  th’  illuming  bright  lily,  assuming 
Its  first  tender  blooming,  sweet  Gra  Gal  Machree. 


262  SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 

II. 

I went  to  the  greenwood,  that  streamlets  serene  would 
Make  music,  and  sheen  would  enliven  me  more : 

Sweet  visions  they  wrought  me,  sweet  memories  they  brought 
Of  thee,  who  first  taught  me  love’s  passion  and  lore ; 

The  birds  round  me  winging,  their  carols  were  singing, 
Their  voices  outringing  with  rapture  and  glee ; 

My  heart  then  enchanted,  by  dearer  tones  haunted, 

For  thy  loved  words  panted,  sweet  Gra  Gal  Machree. 

hi. 

O Love ! I am  thinking  of  thee,  from  the  blinking 
Of  morn  till  the  sinking  of  day  in  the  west, 

And  thus  each  fair  creature,  and  bright,  blooming  feature, 
And  aspect  of  nature,  brings  joy  to  my  breast; 

Each  night  through  the  airy,  sweet  dreamland  of  fairy, 

My  soul  still  unweary,  is  wandering  to  thee, 

And  dream  or  reflection,  is  one  recollection 
Of  thy  fond  affection,  sweet  Gra  Gal  Machree. 


ALONG  WITH  MY  LOVE  I’LL  GO. 

Air  — “ The  Roads  they  are  wet  and  wintry,  Love.” 


I. 

My  love  has  an  eye  of  brightness, 
An  arm  of  valor  free ; 

My  love  has  a heart  of  lightness, 
But  ever  true  to  me ; — 

The  pride  of  my  heart  unchanging, 
His  black  locks’  martial  flow, 

And  away  to  the  wild  wars  ranging, 
Along  with  my  love  111  go. 

H. 

They  tell  me  of  the  strangers 
Who  waste  our  island  fair ; 

That  war  has  toils  and  dangers 
Too  stern  for  me  to  bear ; — 

The  stranger’s  gory  rieving 
May  lay  our  dwellings  low ; 

Yet  to  my  fond  froth  cleaving, 
Along  with  my  love  I’ll  go. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS, 


263 


III. 

The  woods  wear  winter  sadness, 
White  falls  the  icy  shower, 
There’s  shelter,  peace,  and  gladness 
Within  my  father’s  tower; 

I bore  the  summer’s  burning; 

I heed  not  winter’s  snow ; 

And  thus,  through  joy  or  mourning, 
Along  with  my  love  I’ll  go. 


IV. 

O ! ne’er  for  once  to  leave  him 
In  tented  field  or  hall, 

To  smile  if  joy  receive  him, 

Or  die  if  he  should  fall ! 

And  ever  thus  unchanging, 

Through  want,  and  toil,  and  woe, 
Away  to  the  wild  wars  ranging, 
Along  with  my  love  I’ll  go. 


THE  SPRING  OF  THE  YEAR. 

Air  — “ The  Spring  of  the  Year.’’ 

I. 

We  sat  by  the  verge  of  the  forest, 

Where  flowers  shone  like  stars  in  the  ray, 
Where  steep  rocks  towered  highest  and  hoarest, 
’Mid  those  hills  of  the  east  far  away ; 

And  sweet  was  the  fond  love  that  bound  us, 
Undimmed  by  all  doubting  .and  fear, 

And  young,  like  the  fresh  flowers  around  us, 

In  the  soft,  blooming  spring  of  the  year. 


ii. 

The  breeze  brushed  the  stream  into  splendor, 
And  murmured  down  valley  and  lea ; 

The  wild  birds  sang  songs  low  and  tender 
To  none  but  my  darling  and  me ; 


264 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


And  sweet  were  the  smiles  of  my  true  love, 
And  bright  were  the  eyes  of  my  dear, 
A-sparkling  with  warm  rays  of  new  love 
In  the  soft,  blooming  spring  of  the  year. 

hi. 

The  bronzed  nuts  in  autumn  that  cluster, 

The  golden-leaved  sprays  drooping  down, 
Are  diin  near  the  amber-bright  lustre 
That  gleams  in  her  long  locks  of  brown ; 
Her  cheeks  like  the  rose  of  the  morning, 

Her  neck  like  the  blooms  of  the  brere, 

That  smile  all  the  woodlands  adorning, 

In  the  soft,  blooming  spring  of  the  year. 

IV. 

What  vows  of  affection  we  plighted, 

What  dreams  ’mid  those  high  hills  we  wove, 
Of  glory  and  bliss,  ever  lighted 

And  warmed  by  the  gay  lamp  of  love ! 
Those  vows  live  by  doubt  still  unhaunted, 

The  gay  lamp  shines  steady  and  clear, 

Still  brightening  those  dreams  that  enchanted 
In  the  soft,  blooming  spring  of  the  year. 


v. 

The  future  for  us  may  be  laden 

With  grief,  ’stead  of  bliss  and  of  fame, 
But  I and  my  dear  Irish  maiden 
Shall  love  to  the  end  still  the  same. 

So  sure  to  that  love  we’ll  be  clinging, 

As  flowers  in  our  wild  woods  appear, 

Or  birds  in  green  Ireland  are  singing 
In  the  soft,  blooming  spring  of  the  year. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


265 


THE  OUTLAW  OF  KILMORE. 

Air  — “ The  wicked  Kerryman.” 

I. 

Far  in  the  mountains  with  you,  my  Eveleen, 

I would  be  loving  and  true,  my  Eveleen ; 

Then  climb  the  mountains  with  me. 

Long  have  I dwelt  by  the  forest  river  side, 
Where  the  bright  ripples  flash  and  quiver  wide ; 
There  the  fleet  hours  shall  blissful  ever  glide 
O’er  us,  sweet  Gra  Gal  Macliree. 


ii. 

There  on  my  rocky  throne,  fny  Eveleen, 

Ever,  ever  alone,  my  Eveleen, 

I sit  dreaming  of  thee ; 

High  on  the  fern-clad  rocks  reclining  there, 

Though  the  sweet  birds  their  songs  are  twining  fair, 
Thee  I hear — and  I see  thy  shining  hair, 

Still,  still,  sweet  Gra  Gal  Macliree  I 

hi. 

Hunted  and  banned  I’ve  been,  mv  Eveleen, 

But  my  long  sword  is  keen,  my  Eveleen, 

To  keep  all  danger  from  thee  : 

The  flash  of  this  sword  is  my  foeman’s  warning  light, 
And  I live  ’mid  the  wild  hills,  scorning  might, 

While  my  love  grows  eve  and  morning  bright 
For  you,  sweet  Gra  Gal  Macliree  l 

IV. 

Deeply  in  broad  Kilmore,  my  Eveleen, 

Down  by  the  wild  stream’s  shore,  my  Eveleen, 

I’ve  made  a sweet  home  for  thee; 

Yellow  and  bright,  like  thy  long,  long  flowing  hair, 
Flowers  the  fairest  are  ever  blowing  there,  — 

Fairer  still  with  thy  clear  eyes  glowing  there, 

Fondly,  sweet  Gra  Gal  Macliree ! 


266 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


V. 

Then  come  away,  away,  my  Eveleen; 

We  will  spend  each  day,  my  Eveleen, 

Blissful  and  loving  and  free. 

Come  to  the  woods  where  the  streams  are  pouring  blue, 
Which  the  eagle  is  ever  soaring  through ; 

I’ll  grow  fonder,  each  day  adoring  you, 

There,  there,  sweet  Gra  Gal  Machree. 


AN  IRISH  MORNING. 

Air  — “ I built  my  Love  a gallant  Ship.” 


i. 

Within  the  wood  the  wild  bird  wakes, 
And  sings  his  wintry  song ; 

With  dreary  light  the  morning  breaks 
The  snow-clad  hills  along ; 

Ah ! once  to  me  the  early  sun 

Brought  light  and  joy  each  morn ; — 
Now,  would  that  I were  dead  and  gone, 
Or  never  had  been  born ! 


ii. 

Rise  up,  rise  up,  my  husband  dear, 

Rise  up,  my  children,  too ; 

This  is  no  hour  to  linger  here, 

No  time  to  sleep  for  you. 

The  bailiff  he  is  here  — Mo  bron  ! 

To  cast  us  forth  forlorn ; 

Ah ! would  that  we  were  dead  and  gone,. 
Or  never  had  been  born ! 

hi. 

They  say  the  laws  are  good  and  wise, 

To  even-hand  justice  true, 

Equal  to  poor  and  rich  : Arise, 

And  see  wThat  they  can  do ! 

They  cast  us  forth,  they  trample  on 
Our  rights,  with  hate  and  scorn; 

Far  better  were  we  dead  and  gone. 

Or  never  had  been  born ! 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHOET  BALLADS.  267 
IV. 

Awake,  awake ! All  silent  there ; 

They’ll  never  more  arise  ! 

She  looks.  Death  answers  in  the  stare 
Of  their  cold,  stony  eyes ; 

Famine  had  slain  sire,  daughter,  son, 

And  left  her  there  forlorn, 

Crying,  “ Would  that  I were  dead  and  gone, 

Or  never  had  been  born ! ” 


v. 

Thus  British  Law  shall  scourge  the  land 
From  town  to  rural  glen, 

Till  the  crushed  People  understand 
The  God-made  rights  of  men. 

Till  come  that  day,  they’ll  cry  “ Mo  bron  !” 
Noon,  night,  and  early  morn, 

And  wish  that  they  were  dead  and  gone, 

Or  never  had  been  born ! 


I’LL  STAY  AT  HOME. 

Air  — “ Paddies  evermore.” 


i. 

The  coat  is  rough  that  covers  me ; 

My  hands  are  hard  as  horn ; 

The  great  ones  mock  my  poverty, 

And  look  on  me  with  scorn, 

And  sneer,  and  say,  I’ll  sail  away  — 

A wretch  obscure  and  banned ! 

No ; I’ll  be  true  for  life  to  you, 

And  stay  at  home,  dear  land ! 

ii. 

I have  a wife  as  summer  bright, 

My  loving  Eileen  Bawn  ; 

A little  son  with  locks  of  light, 

And  smiles  like  May-day’s  dawn ; 

And  could  I leave  them  here  to  grieve, 
And  seek  some  foreign  strand? 

No ; I’ll  be  true  to  them  and  you, 

And  stay  at  home,  dear  land ! 


268 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


III. 

And  could  I leave  the  grand  old  hills, 
And  never  see  them  more, 

The  green  woods  and  the  sparkling  rills 
That  deck  my  native  shore, 

To  sweat  and  slave,  then  fill  a grave 
Delved  by  some  foreign  hand? 

No ; I’ll  be  true  for  life  to  you, 

And  stay  at  home,  dear  land ! 


IV. 

’Tis  hard  with  tyranny  to  bear, 

With  poverty  to  cope; 

But  still  the  stout  heart  laughs  at  care, 
And  while  there’s  life  there’s  hope. 
Yes,  hope  with  me  a day  to  see 
Of  Freedom  great  and  grand; 

So  I’ll  be  true  for  life  to  you, 

And  stay  at  home,  dear  land ! 


v. 

I mind  me  of  my  sires  who  bled 
For  Freedom  long  ago  ; 

Who  ’gainst  each  host  our  tyrants  led, 
Dealt  gallant  blow  for  blow. 

I hold  to-night  their  memory  bright, 
Each  brave  and  patriot  band, 

And  I’ll  be  true,  like  them,  to  you, 
And  stay  at  home,  dear  land ! 


THE  LOCKS  OF  AMBER. 

Air—  “ Nora  an  cul  omhra.” 

Her  eyes  beamed  so  clearly 
With  love’s  sunny  ray, 

When  I told  her  how  dearly 
I loved  her  alway, 

As  she  sat  in  the  chamber, 

’Mid  gladness  and  light, 

With  her  long  locks  of  amber 
All  glossy  and  bright. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


269 


II. 

There  are  shells  by  the  sea-side 
Of  brown  golden  hue, 

There  are  flowers  by  the  lea-side 
To  mate  with  them,  too  : 

The  high  rocks  I clamber 
With  gold-moss  are  dight, 

Like  my  love’s  locks  of  amber, 
All  glossy  and  bright. 

hi. 

When  clouds  gold  and  dun  set 
O’er  ocean  and  strand, 

The  deep  hues  of  sunset 
Look  glorious  and  grand ! 

O ! they  make  me  remember 
With  endless  delight 
My  love’s  locks  of  amber, 

All  glossy  and  bright. 

IV. 

One  dear  lock,  I wear  it, 

My  fond  maiden  gave  ; 

Nigh  my  heart  I will  bear  it 
Till  cold  in  my  grave  : 

Should  life  lower  like  December, 
They’d  give  my  heart  light, 
Those  long  locks  of  amber, 

All  glossy  and  bright. 


ALLISDRUM’S  MARCH  AT  THE  BATTLE  OF 
KNOCKINOSS. 

A.  D.  1648. 

Air  — 11  Allisdrunfs  March.” 

I. 

Blow  up  the  pipes  with  the  brave  battle  chorus, 

Look  to  your  banner,  the  foe  is  before  us, 

Steady  your  guns,  but  when  wanting  to  slay  more, 

There’s  nought  like  the  rush  and  the  slash  of  the  claymore ! 


270  SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 

Follow  me,  follow  me,  dauntless  and  steady, 

Shoulder  to  shoulder ; the  battle  is  ready ; 

Many  a foeman  will  ne’er  see  a day  more, 

When  we  blow  up  the  pipes  and  fall  on  with  the  claymore 

ii. 

Up  Knockinoss  comes  he,  Murrogh  the  Burner,* 

The  scourge  of  his  race,  of  the  Old  Faith  the  spurner; 
Black  be  the  day  he  returned  into  Ireland, 

To  change  her  from  peace  to  a woful  and  dire  land ! 

Follow  me,  follow  me,  dauntless  and  steady, 

Shoulder  to  shoulder ; the  battle  is  ready : 

Look  to  your  guns,  but  when  wanting  to  slay  more, 

Blow  louder  the  pipes  and  fall  on  with  the  claymore ! 

hi. 

On  down  the  hill,  and  ne’er  fire  till  you’re  near  them, 

Then  try  from  your  path  with  one  volley  to  clear  them ; 
Down  with  your  guns  then,  and  up  with  your  claymore, 

And  fast  from  our  onset  they’ll  soon  clear  the  way  more ! 
Follow  me,  follow  me,  dauntless  and  steady, 

Shoulder  to  shoulder ; the  battle  is  ready ; 

For  God  and  our  country  we’ll  never  delay  more 
To  blow  up  the  pipes  and  fall  on  with  the  claymore-! 


IV. 

Crash  through  the  foe  went  that  chief  and  his  brave  men, 
With  bosoms  the  stoutest  that  ever  God  gave  men ; 

But  curst  be  the  day  when  Lord  Taafe  grew  faint-hearted, 
And  stood  not,  nor  charged,  but  in  panic  departed ! 

Leaving  that  chief  with  his  comrades  to  die  there, 
Leaving  their  corses  for  th’  eagles  to  lie  there ; 

But  the  foeman  he  rued  and  remembered  each  day  more, 
Stout  Allisdrum’s  march,  and  the  sweep  of  his  claymore ! 


* Baron  of  Incliiquin. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


271 


THE  LITTLE  BIRD. 

Air  — “ As  I was  riding  out  one  Day.” 

i. 

A little  bird  with  golden  wings 
Flies  past  from  bloom  to  blossom : 
’Tis  like  the  memory  that  springs 
Of  you  within  my  bosom ; - 
He  flies  unto  the  woodland  tree, 

The  tree  he  best  loves  only : 

And  thus  that  memory  comes  to  me, 
Where’er  I wander  lonely. 


ii. 

That  little  bird,  some  magic  power, 
Some  spell,  lias  surely  found  him, 
For  when  he  warbles  in  his  bower, 
The  woods  seem  glad  around  him; 
And  when  I hear  his  dulcet  voice, 

I think  of  yours  each  day,  love, 
And  memory  makes  my  heart  rejoice, 
And  I am  glad  and  gay,  love. 

in. 

I miss  him  now  the  woods  among, 
’Mid  dewy  leaves  adorning  : 

The  wild  hawk  heard  his  lonely  song, 
And  killed  him  in  the  morning ; 

But  nought  can  kill  the  memory 
Of  you,  now  sweetly  shining 
Within  my  heart  so  constantly, 

Till  life  that  heart’s  resigning. 


272 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHOUT  BALLADS. 


GARRYOWEN. 


i. 

They  say  a dead  man  tells  no  tales, 

That  silence  o’er  his  tomb  prevails, 
However  blow  blind  Fortune’s  gales 
In  peace  or  battle  gory ; 

But  we  can  give  that  phrase  the  lie, 

For  dead  men’s  voices  fill  the  sky, 

And  float  from  Limerick's  towers  on  high, 
O’er  Garryowen  in  glory  ! 

ii. 

O,  mighty  dead  ! O,  unforgot ! 

O,  heroes  of  the  glorious  lot! 

Your  deeds  they  sanctify  each  spot, 

Your  names  each  legend  hoary! 
From  charnel  crypts  of  mouldered  bones, 
From  fosses,  walls,  and  graven  stones, 
Your  voices  sound  in  thunder  tones 
O’er  Garryowen  in  glory ! 

hi. 

They  name  great  names,  great  battles  won, 
Great  deeds  by  Irish  heroes  done, 

They  cry,  “ Unite  ! Be  one  ! Be  one  ! ” 
From  ancient  graves  and  gory; 
They  bid  us,  brothers,  all  prepare 
For  th’  hour  when  we  can  do  and  dare, 
When  Freedom’s  shout  shall  rend  the  air 
O’er  Garryowen  in  glory ! 

IY. 

And  we  can  dare  and  we  can  do, 

United  men  and  brothers  true, 

Their  gallant  footsteps  to  pursue, 

And  change  our  country’s  story; 
To  emulate  their  high  renown, 

To  strike  our  false  oppressors  down, 

And  stir  the  old  triumphant  town 

With  Garryowen  in  glory  ! 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHOET  BALLADS. 


273 


y. 

And  when  that  mighty  day  comes  round, 

We  still  shall  hear  their  voices  sound  — 
Our  tramp  shall  roll  along  the  ground, 

And  shake  the  mountains  hoary ; 
We’ll  raise  the  Sunburst  as  of  yore, 

And  Limerick’s  streets  and  Shannon  shore 
Shall  echo  to  our  shout  once  more 
Of  Garryowen  in  glory. 


THE  LESSON. 

TO  MY  SON. 


I. 

Boy,  you  are  come  of  gentle  blood, 
Though  now  of  poor  degree,  — 
Where’er  you  go,  may  God  the  Good 
Smile  on  your  destiny ; 

Whate’er  your  future,  dark  or  bright, 
Through  life’s  becheckered  span, 

In  fortune’s  glow,  or  blackest  night, 
Still  prove  yourself  a man  ! 

ii. 

While  toiling  up  life’s  mountain  rude, 
O’er  pathways  insecure, 

A kindly  bond  of  brotherhood 
Should  bind  you  to  the  poor ; 
Whome’er  you  see  misfortune  grip 
And  wither  ’neath  her  ban, 

Go,  grasp  his  hand  in  fellowship, 

And  prove  yourself  a man  ! 

hi. 

Whate’er  you  sow  in  heedless  youth, 
In  manhood  you  will  reap ; 

Then  walk  in  virtue’s  path  of  truth, 
And  God’s  commandments  keep, 
For  virtue  is  the  surest  friend 
Since  life  and  time  began ; 

18 


274 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


Then  with  her  arms  your  soul  defend, 
And  prove  yourself  a man. 


iv. 

Whene’er  you  see  some  coward  slave 
To  foreign  rule  incline ; 

Tor  foreign  gold,  the  sordid  knave, 
Ilis  native  land  malign ; 

From  peasants  born,  or  nobly  sprung, 
Howe’er  his  life-stream  ran, 

Go,  curb  the  dastard’s  villain  tongue, 
And  prove  yourself  a man  ! 


v. 

His  native  land ! Our  native  land ! 

I hear  the  warning  hum, 

Along  the  plains,  from  strand  to  strand, 
Of  dangerous  days  to  come ; 

But  soldier  poor,  or  general  high, 

To  lead  her  battle’s  van, 

On  danger  look  with  steady  eye, 

And  prove  yourself  a man  ! 


VI. 

For  Ireland  oft  your  fathers  dreed 
Misfortune’s  doomful  wrath, 

But  yet  in  Ireland’s  darkest  need 
Still  tread  the  patriot’s  path ; 

A day  shall  come,  whose  glorious  wind 
Her  victor  flags  will  fan, 

With  Christian  soul  and  patriot  mind, 
Then  prove  yourself  a man  ! 

VII. 

O ! wealth  it  is  a faithless  thing, 

And  false  are  pride  and  fame ; 

For  death  may  snap  the  human  string 
While  loudest  throats  acclaim ; 

Then  ne’er  let  wealth,  or  fame,  or  pride, 
Your  youthful  heart  trepan,  — 

Let  Christian  honor  be  your  guide, 

And  prove  yourself  a man  ! 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS.  275 


DIARMID  MOR. 

Air  — “ Says  the  Mother  to  the  Daughter.” 


I. 

The  wintry  sun,  with  cheerless  gleam 
Gilds  Limerick’s  battered  towers, 

But  far  away  down  Shannon’s  stream 
A cloud  of  darkness  lowers ; 

And  there  they  glide  upon  the  tide, 

The  ships  that  bear  him  o’er 
The  stormy  wave,  with  Sarsfield  brave, 

My  gallant  Diarmid  Mor. 

ii. 

One  summer  eve,  long,  long  ago, 

He  said  by  wandering  Lee, 

Its  rushing  waves  should  backward  flow 
Ere  he  would  part  from  me ; 

But  war  came  down,  with  darkest  frown, 

And  called  from  Shannon  shore  — 

He  left  his  bride  that  eventide, 

My  gallant  Diarmid  Mor ! 

hi. 

He  heard  its  call,  and  sped  away 
To  aid  his  native  land. 

Can  Aughrim’s  field,  or  Limerick  say 
They  saw  a truer  hand? 

Heart,  arm,  and  glaive  he  freely  gave, 

As  did  his  sires  before  — 

And  now  he  flees  across  the  seas, 

My  gallant  Diarmid  Mor. 

IV. 

By  Lee’s  green  banks  the  flowers  shall  bloom, 
When  summer  decks  the  grove, 

But  when  unto  my  heart  shall  come 
The  smiles  of  my  true  love  ? 

O ! oft  and  drear  shall  flow  the  tear, 

Till  some  glad  bark  has  bore 
My  love  again  back  o’er  the  main, 

My  gallant  Diarmid  Mor. 


276 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


PADDY’S  PROPOSAL. 

Air  — “ No,  Mr.  Gallagher.” 


I had  a young  sweetheart,  and  asked  her  to  marry  me ; 
She  frowned  that  my  impudence  so  far  could  carry  me, 
Said,  to  ask  her  to  marry  a poor  serf  in  slavery 
Was  nothing  but  meanness,  and  all  kinds  of  knavery! 
She  told  me  to  handle  a pike  ere  she’d  list  to  me, 

And  vowed  if  I didn’t,  by  that  and  by  this  to  me, 

She’d  join  for  a rebel,  to  vex  and  to  harry  me, 

Or  remain  an  old  maid,  and  she  never  would  marry  me ! 


ii. 

Her  fingers  I squeezed  in  the  big,  brawny  hand  o’  me, 

And  went  with  a captain  who  took  the  command  o’  me 
Off  to  the  hill-side  to  practise  the  drilling  there 
The  pike,  and  the  rifle,  and  all  kinds  o’  killing  there; 

I came  back  again  when  I thought  he’d  perfected  me,  — 

She  said  I returned  long  before  she  expected  me, 

And  bade  me  be  off  witli  the  devil  may  carry  me, 

And  till  Ireland  was  free  that  she  never  would  marry  me ! 

hi. 

Then  I kicked  my  caubeen  for  relief  to  my  devilment, 

And  thought  for  a time  what  her  words  so  uncivil  meant  — 
“ Begor!  she  has  spirits,”  said  I,  “like  the  queen  o’  hearts, 
And  bates  to  tarnation  whate’er  I have  seen  o’  hearts ! ” 

I took  up  my  pike,  and  its  handle  I kissed  again, 

And  practised  the  drill  till  I half  sprained  my  wrist  again, 
And  thought  with  the  bayonet  no  soldier  could  parry  me, 
And  the  next  time  I asked  her  she  surely  would  marry  me ! 


IY. 

I took  to  the  hills  -with  our  roving  and  airy  boys, 

And  ’tis  we  that  manoeuvred  like  gallant  Tipperary  hoys; 
But  we  had  no  provisions,  no  tents  for  to  cover  us, 

But  the  snow,  and  the  rain,  and  the  fogs  rolling  over  us. 

We  had  a smart  skirmish  one  day  as  a feeler  there, 

To  make  out  the  strength  of  the  soldier  and  Peeler  there  — 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS.  277 

11  Och  ! ” says  I,  when  ’twas  over,  “ now  nothing  need  worry  me, 
’Tis  so  easy  to  kill  them,  she  surely  will  marry  me ! ” 


v. 

But  the  sleet  and  the  rain  kept  incessantly  pouring  there, 

And  the  floods  rattled  down  and  the  tempest  was  roaring  there; 
’Twas  these,  not  the  soldiers  nor  Peelers  could  sunder  us, 

Por  when  they  stood  before  us  we  soon  brought  them  under  us. 
Now  she  comes  to  my  cave  in  the  hills  where  I’m  hiding  here, 
And  she  gives  me  such  courage,  so  gay  and  confiding  here, 
That  I’m  sure  Fortune’s  wheel  to  the  topmost  will  carry  me, 
That  well  soon  free  old  Ireland,  and  Mary  will  marry  me ! 


MARY  EARLEY. 

Air  — “ The  little  fairy  Moat.” 


There  is  an  island  on  the  lake, 

Where  dwelt  my  Mary  Earley, 

My  modest  maid,  with  smile  so  sweet, 
And  teeth  so  white  and  pearly, 

With  graceful  form,  and  heart  so  warm, 
And  eyes  that  shone  so  clearly, 

And  wild  I loved,  and  wild  adored 
My  sweet  young  Mary  Earley. 


ii. 

There  is  a boat  upon  that  lake, 

With  sails  of  snowy  whiteness, 
That  floats  across  the  silent  tide, 
From  shore  to  shore  in  brightness ; 
And  oft  within  that  swan-like  boat, 
While  morn  was  shining  fairly, 

I’ve  basked  me  in  the  sunny  smiles 
Of  loving  Mary  Earley. 

hi. 

And  oft  upon  the  silent  eves 
Of  golden  summer  weather, 


278  SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 

We’ve  sailed  away  to  some  bright  bay 
With  joyful  hearts  together; 

The  wild  birds  seemed  to  haunt  that  shore, 
To  sing  around  us  rarely, 

And  many  a song  of  love  they  sang 
For  me  and  Mary  Earley. 


IV. 

One  autumn  day,  to  bar  my  way 
To  love  and  that  green  island, 

The  storm  swept  down  the  moorlands  brown, 
And  roared  o’er  glen  and  highland ; 

I plunged  me  in  the  surging  tide, 

And  soon  I clasped  her  dearly, 

And  kissed  her  by  the  island’s  side, 

My  loving  Mary  Earley. 


Y. 

And  now,  beside  Lough  Deirgert’s  shore, 
I sigh  for  Mary  Earley, 

And  song  birds  all  unheeded  pour 
The  strains  they  sing  so  rarely ; 

There  is  a ruin  lone  and  hoar, 

Where  sigh  the  sad  winds  drearly, 

And  there  she  sleeps  forevermore, 

My  loving  Mary  Earley. 


TO  IRELAND. 


i. 

Land  of  hills  and  wildwoods  blooming, 
Heaven’s  own  tints  from  heaven  assuming, 
Queen  of  valor,  old  and  hoary, 

Thou  shalt  shine  in  song  and  story, 
Radiant  yet  with  Freedom’s  glory ! 


ii. 

Long  we’ve  bowed  in  slavish*  sorrow, 
Hoping  vain  for  Freedom’s  morrow; 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


279 


Long  before  the  foeman  quailing, 

Rang  thy  harp  with  plaintive  wailing, 
Groaned  thy  children  unavailing. 

hi. 

Land  of  beauty ! Land  of  promise  ! 
Rise,  and  hope  thou  all  things  from  us ; 
Freedom  wakens  like  a giant,  — 

We  are  now  no  slaves  compliant, 

We  confront  thy  foes  defiant! 


IV. 

Pass  from  brother  unto  brother,  — 
Pass  the  word,  beloved  mother ! — 
Pass  the  word  in  tone  of  thunder, 
Freemen  stand  thy  blue  skies  under, 
Sworn  to  rend  thy  chains  asunder ! 


v. 

May  no  foul  dissension  harm  us ; 

May  thy  wrongs  resistless  arm  us  ; 
May  thy  bright  smile  beaming  o’er  us, 
True  fraternal  love  restore  us, 

For  the  Battle  Day  before  us  ! 


MY  FLOWER  OF  FLOWERS. 

Air  — “ Sian  Beo.” 


i. 

Far,  far  away  where  the  valleys  are  fair  and  green, 

And  the  Suir  murmurs  down  its  castles  and  wildwoods  between, 
And  the  beautiful  hills  shine  grand  in  the  sunset  hours, 

With  a heart  full  of  sorrow  I first  met  my  flower  of  flowers. 


ii. 

With  grief  in  my  heart  — yet  sorrow  is  ne’er  so  sad 
But  fondness  can  lighten  and  true  love  can  make  it  glad ; 

And  fondness  and  true  love  I found  by  the  Suir’s  green  bowers, 
When  I pledged  her  my  troth  and  worshipped  my  flower  of  flowers. 


280 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


III. 

O ! fair  is  the  rose  that  smiles  in  Anner’s  green  dale, 

And  modest  and  pure  is  the  lily  so  pearly  and  pale, 

And  the  eyebright  shines  like  a star  from  Heaven’s  blue  towers : 
But  fairer  to  me  is  my  beautiful  flower  of  flowers. 


IV. 

My  heart’s  like  a golden  temple  of  fairyland, 

Since  I first  saw  my  love  with  her  face  so  bright  and  bland, 

And  the  world  seems  a path  where  never  a dark  cloud  lowers  — 
For  the  sun  that  shines  o’er  is  my  beautiful  flower  of  flowers. 


FINEEN  THE  ROVER. 

Air  — “ You’d  think,  if  you  heard  their  Pipes  squealing.” 


I. 

An  old  castle  towers  o’er  the  billows 
That  thunder  by  Cleena’s  green  land, 
And  there  dwelt  as  gallant  a rover 
As  ever  grasped  hilt  in  the  hand; 
Eight  stately  towers  of  the  waters 
Lie  anchored  in  Baltimore  Bay, 

And  over  their  twenty  score  sailors, 

O ! who  but  that  Rover  holds  sway  ? 
Then  ho  ! for  Fineen  the  Rover, 
Fineen  O’Driscoll  the  free, 
Straight  as  the  mast  of  his  galley, 
And  wild  as  a wave  of  the  sea ! 


ii. 

The  Saxons  of  Cork  and  Moyallo, 

They  harried  his  lands  with  their  powers ; 

He  gave  them  a taste  of  his  cannon, 

And  drove  them  like  wolves  from  his  towers ; 

The  men  of  Clan  London  brought  over 
Their  strong  fleet  to  make  him  a slave ; 

They  met  him  by  Mizen’s  wild  highland, 

And  the  sharks  crunched  their  bones  ’neath  the 
wave ! 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


281 


Then  ho  ! for  Fineen  the  Rover ! 

Fineen  O’Driscoll  the  free, 

With  step  like  the  red  stag  of  Beara, 

And  voice  like  the  bold,  sounding  sea! 

hi. 

Long  time  in  that  old  battered  castle, 

Or  out  on  the  waves  with  his  clan, 

He  feasted,  and  ventured,  and  conquered, 

But  ne’er  struck  his  colors  to  man. 

In  a fight  ’gainst  the  foes  of  his  country 
He  died  as  a brave  man  should  die, 

And  he  sleeps  ’neath  the  waters  of  Cleena, 
Where  the  waves  sing  his  caoine  to  the  sky ! 
Then  ho  ! for  Fineen  the  Rover, 

Fineen  O’Driscoll  the  free, 

With  eye  like  the  osprey’s  at  morning, 
And  smile  like  the  sun  on  the  sea ! 


SNOWING. 

Air— “ An  gun  gal  ban.” 


i. 

’Tis  snowing  — ’tis  drifting  and  snowing; 

Will  the  snow  freeze  my  heart  to-night? 
’Tis  blowing  — ’tis  drearily  blowing; 

Will  the  cold  blast  make  love  less  bright? 
O ! the  bleakness  my  heart  may  enter, 

And  the  world’s  dark  misery ; 

But  through  summer  or  coldness  of  winter, 
’Twill  brighten  with  thoughts  of  thee ! 


ii. 

There’s  a summer  that  sweetly  bloometh, 
Whose  freshness  can  ne’er  depart; 

In  the  footsteps  of  love  it  cometh, 

And  it  reigns  in  the  constant  heart! 

’Tis  snowing — ’tis  drifting  and  snowing, 
And  the  wind  howls  drearily, 

But  that  gay  summer’s  splendor  glowing 
Lights  my  bosom  with  thoughts  of  thee ! 


282 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


THE  YELLOW  HAIR. 

AiR““  As  I went  forth  one  evening.” 


I. 

You’d  know  my  gentle  true  love  ’mid  five  hundred  maidens  fair, 
By  her  smiles  of  pleasant  sweetness  and  her  wondrous  golden 
hair, 

By  her  step  of  airy  lightness,  like  a fawn’s  in  forest  lone, 

And  her  gushing,  loving  laughter,  like  a sweet  flute’s  golden  tone. 
O ! the  yellow,  yellow  hair ! O ! the  glittering,  yellow  hair  ! 
Sweetly  flowing,  brightly  glowing,  o’er  her  neck  and  shoulders 
fair! 


ii. 

With  a violet-tinted  ribbon,  and  a ribbon  all  of  green, 

Doth  she  bind  those  glossy  tresses  at  the  pleasant  morning’s 
sheen ; 

And  all  day  they  gleam  and  glitter,  like  a young  queen’s  golden 
crown, 

But  she  lets  them  flow  at  sunset  in  their  yellow  brightness  down. 

O ! the  yellow,  yellow  hair ! O ! the  glittering,  yellow  hair ! 

Sweetly  flowing,  brightly  glowing,  o’er  her  neck  and  shoulders 
fair ! 


hi. 

Beyond  the  tall,  great  mountains,  where  sing  the  wild  streams’ 
tides, 

Amid  the  airy  greenwoods,  my  lovely  maid  resides ; 

And  she’ll  give,  when  next  I meet  her,  of  that  hair  one  ringlet 
band, 

And  I’ll  wear  it  in  my  bosom,  ever  wandering  through  the  land. 

O ! the  yellow,  yellow  hair ! O ! the  glittering,  yellow  hair ! 

Sweetly  flowing,  brightly  glowing,  o’er  her  neck  and  shoulders 
fair! 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


283 


A HYMN  TO  ENGLAND. 

Air  — “ The  Boys  of  Wexford.” 

I. 

Hail  to  the  English  government, 

By  right  divine  our  own ; 

May  quiet  consciences  be  theirs, 

From  ministers  to  throne ; 

For  what  they  do  throughout  the  land 
Give  praise  unanimous, 

For  sure  ’tis  all  by  God’s  command 
They  slay  and  torture  us  ! 

Then  hail  to  England’s  government, 

Our  own  by  right  divine, 

And  starve  ’mid  plains  where  plenty  reigns. 
And  die  and  make  no  sign ! 

ii. 

There  once  were  gallant  Irishmen, 

Long  deemed  to  Ireland  true, 

Who  thought  their  heritage  their  own, 

Church,  creed,  and  conscience  too ; 

Poor,  blinded  slaves,  untaught,  unjust, 

To  clash  with  England’s  will ; 

England  has  trampled  them  to  dust, 

And  shall  we  weep  them  still? 

O,  no  ! we’ll  praise  the  government, 

Our  own  by  right  divine, 

And  starve  ’mid  plains  where  plenty  reigns, 
And  die  and  make  no  sign ! 

hi. 

Up  spoke  the  holy  Wexford  priest, 

“ Give  England  up  your  arms  ; 

What  have  poor  clods  like  us  to  do 
With  war  and  war’s  alarms? 

Leave  war  to  kings  and  princes  great, 

We  want  but  only  peace, 

To  save  our  souls,  and  for  the  state 
Our  crops  and  herds  increase. 


284 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


So  let  us  hail  the  government, 

Our  own  by  right  divine, 

And  starve  ’mid  plains  where  plenty  reigns, 

And  die  and  make  no  sign ! ” 

iv. 

They  yielded  : then  great  England  fell, 

Of  course  by  God’s  command, 

With  murder,  rape,  and  sacrilege 
Upon  the  bleeding  land; 

They  slew  him  and  his  flock  like  brutes, 

They  hacked  him  part  by  part, 

They  fried  his  fat  to  grease  their  boots , 

And  supped  upon  his  heart ! * 

For  this,  we  hail  the  government, 

Our  own  by  right  divine, 

And  starve  ’mid  plains  where  plenty  reigns, 

And  die  and  make  no  sign ! 

v. 

When  Famine  spread  his  banner  pale, 

And  shook  his  spectral  spear 
O’er  the  doomed  land,  and  every  wind 
Brought  Plague,  and  Death,  and  Fear, 

The  voice  that  ever  filled  our  ears 
Was,  “Yield  ye  Caesar’s  due; 

What  right  to  think,  what  right  to  eat, 

Have  wicked  dogs  like  you?  ” t 
Then  let  us  hail  the  government, 

Our  own  by  right  divine, 

And  starve  ’mid  plains  where  plenty  reigns, 

And  die  and  make  no  sign ! 

vi. 

We  have  no  memories  to  sear 
Our  hearts,  of  blood  and  pains, 

Of  massacres  of  child  and  man, 

Of  dungeons  and  of  chains ; 

* See  the  several  histories  of  the  Rebellion  of  1798  for  an  account  of  the 
career  and  death  of  Father  Murphy,  the  heroic  priest  alluded  to  in  this 
hymn.  An  English  yeomanry  corps,  the  “ Ancient  Britons,”  used  his 
body  exactly  in  the  manner  given  in  the  above  text. 

f I saw,  myself,  when  a boy,  the  people  of  a district  daily  dying  of  hun- 
ger, where  there  was  as  much  corn,  cattle,  and  food  of  every  kind  within 
its  bounds  as  would  be  sufficient  to  feed  the  whole  population  for  a year 
or  two. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


285 


Of  hero  heads  on  castle  towers, 

In  many  a ghastly  row, 

Of  pitchcaps,  thumbscrews’  torture  powers, 

Of  pillage,  ruin,  woe! 

O,  no  ! Then  hail  the  government, 

Our  own  by  right  divine, 

And  starve  ’mid  plains  where  plenty  reigns, 
And  die  and  make  no  sign ! 

VII. 

And  all  you  sons  of  wickedness, 

Kneel  down  and  pray  with  me 
For  newer  tortures,  heavier  chains, 

And  deeper  misery ; 

And  thank  your  blessed  stars  on  high 
For  each  soul-saving  meed, 

But  keep  your  arms  and  powder  dry 
For  England’s  hour  of  need ! 

And  hail  our  holy  government, 

Our  own  by  right  divine, 

And  starve  ’mid  plains  where  plenty  reigns, 
And  die  and  make  no  sign ! 


O,  FAIR  SHINES  THE  SUN  ON  GLENARA. 

Air  — “ Glenara.” 

i. 

O,  fair  shines  the  sun  on  Glenara, 

And  calm  rest  his  beams  on  Glenara ; 

But  O ! there’s  a light 
Far  dearer,  more  bright, 

Illumines  my  soul  in  Glenara, 

The  light  of  thine  eyes  in  Glenara. 

ii. 

And  sweet  sings  the  stream  of  Glenara, 

Glancing  down  through  the  woods  like  an  arrow ; 

But  a sound  far  more  sweet 
Glads  my  heart  when  we  meet 
In  the  green  summer  woods  of  Glenara,  — 

Thy  voice  by  the  wave  of  Glenara. 


286  SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 

III. 

And  0 ! ever  thus  in  Glenara, 

Till  we  sleep  in  our  graves  by  Glenara, 
May  thy  voice  sound  as  free 
And  as  kindly  to  me, 

And  thine  eyes  beam  as  fond  in  Glenara, 

In  the  green  summer  woods  of  Glenara ! 


THE  GIRL  I LEFT  BEHIND  ME. 

A PRISON  SONG. 

I. 

I sat  beneath  a withered  tree 

When  winter  winds  blew  keenly* — 

As  soon  such  winds  might  bring  to  me 
The  red  rose  blushing  sheenly, 

As  fate  return  life’s  jovial  morn, 

And  smiling  gay  re-find  me, 

The  hopes  all  crossed,  the  loved  and  lost, 
The  girl  I left  behind  me ! 

ii. 

Like  that  sear  tree  whose  leaflets  shone 
Last  spring  with  dewdrops  pearly, 

My  hopes  outbloomed  at  manhood’s  dawn, 
In  love’s  light  shining  early ; 

The  leaves  are  dead,  my  joys  are  fled, 

The  tyrant’s  shackles  bind  me, 

And  never  more  may  fate  restore 
The  girl  I left  behind  me ! 

hi. 

But  sure  a man  hath  other  ties 
Than  love’s  light  flame  pursuing, 

To  dry  his  country’s  tearful  eyes, 

The  tyrant’s  work  undoing; 

I sowed  the  seed  of  that  bright  creed, 

And  scorn  the  doom  assigned  me,  — 
For  her  alone  I make  my  moan, 

The  girl  I left  behind  me ! 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


287 


IV. 

They  tell  me  that  her  early  bloom 
Is  dimmed  with  constant  weeping, 
Like  Ireland,  o’er  her  woful  doom 
A tearful  vigil  keeping ; 

But  spite  of  fears  and  patriot  tears, 
My  better  hopes  remind  me 
I’ll  see  her  face,  and  yet  embrace 
The  girl  I left  behind  me  I 


v. 

Yes,  sometimes  to  my  prison  cell 
Hope  comes  in  arms  all  gleaming, 
In  fancy  brings  the  battle  yell, 

And  green  flags  proudly  streaming ; 
In  fancy  shows  our  tyrant  foes 
Retreat,  no  more  to  bind  me, 

And  Freedom’s  reign  restores  again 
The  girl  I left  behind  me ! 


THIS  MAID  OF  MINE. 

Air  — “ Costly  were  her  robes  of  gold.” 


i. 

My  Mary  is  not  wondrous  fair, 

As  other  maidens  are, 

Yet  she’s  to  me  a jewel  rare, 

A clear,  bright,  shining  star ; 

No  glorious  form  that  can  surprise, 
No  Grecian  face  divine  — 

The  beauty  of  her  soul-bright  eyes 
That  marks  this  maid  of  mine. 


ii. 

No  vain  pursuit,  no  idle  thought, 

No  art  its  charm  bestows ; 

No  smiles  with  honeyed  treachery  fraught 
My  darling  true-love  knows ; 


288 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


A bashful  mien,  a modest  face, 

Where  sunny  health  doth  shine, 

A form  of  sweet  and  simple  grace 
That  mark  this  maid  of  mine. 

hi. 

She  dwells  not  in  the  lordly  halls 
Where  Fashion  loves  to  blaze, 

But  where  the  rocks,  like  giant  walls, 
And  hills  their  green  sides  raise ; 

And  there  no  guile  her  heart  has  known, 
No  proud  charms  false  and  fine  — 
There  trusting  love  for  me  alone 
That  marks  this  maid  of  mine. 


SHAWN  DHAS  OF  TULLYELMER. 

Air  — “ The  old  Astrologer.” 


I. 

Shawn  Dhas,*  of  Tullyelmer, 

He  was  a nice  young  man, 

With  squinting  eyes  and  turned-up  nose, 

And  a mouth  spread  half  a span ; 

The  flesh  was  lank  upon  his  limbs, 

But  mighty  were  his  bones, 

And  his  feet  were  like  two  wooden  rams 
That  drive  the  paving  stones  ! 

Sing  de’il  may  care  how  others  fare, 

I’m  born  a beauty  bright, 

And  a princess  I will  marry, 

Who’ll  be  my  heart’s  delight! 

ii. 

As  Shawn  he  went  a-courting, 

One  pleasant  morn  in  May, 

He  met  an  old  Astrologer 
Upon  the  king’s  highway, 

* Shawn  Dhas.  John  the  Handsome.  By  antiphrasis,  John  the  Ugly, 
— its  sense  in  the  song. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


289 


With  thin-cut  lips,  and  piercing  eyes, 
And  long,  hooked  nose  between  — 
You’d  travel  all  old  Ireland’s  ground 
To  find  a blade  more  keen ! 

Sing  de’il  may  care,  &c. 

hi. 

He  sidled  up  and  simpered, 

And  thus  to  him  did  say, 

“ I bear  you  can  tell  fortunes, 

Will  you  tell  mine,  I pray?  ” 

**  O,  I can  tell  good  fortunes 
But  for  a golden  fee, 

Then  whip  me  out  a guinea  bright, 
And  cross  my  palm!  ” said  he. 

Sing  de’il  may  care,  &c. 


IV. 

Out  hopped  his  golden  guinea, 

And  crossed  the  old  man’s  palm, 
Who  said,  “From  south  to  polar  star 
This  is  man’s  only  balm ; 

The  moon  is  in  her  tantrums  now, 
With  the  Crab  and  Gemini, 

And  to  smile  down  good  luck  on  you 
Requires  the  guinea  fee ! 

Sing  de’il  may  care.  &c. 


v. 

“ So  I’ll  put  it  in  my  pocket, 

And  I’ll  tell  your  fortune  soon  — 

Brian  Aireach  and  his  Reaping  Hook 
They  both  command  the  Moon; 

Bold  Leo  and  young  Virgo  bright 
Hold  Libra’s  scales  on  high, 

Which  shows  that  you  some  princess  grand 
Will  wed  before  you  die ! ” 

Sing  de’il  may  care,  &c. 

VI. 

And  now  on  the  fine  ladies 
Shawn  Dhas  will  always  leer, 

With  a sidelong  look  in  his  great  eyes, 

And  his  mouth  from  ear  to  ear : 

19 


290 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


But  at  the  pleasant  country  girls 
•He’ll  sneer,  and  pass  them  by, 

With  his  leaden  poll  thrown  proudly  back, 

And  his  chin  cocked  to  the  sky, 

Singing,  “ De’il  may  care  how  others  fare, 
I’m  born  a beauty  bright, 

And  a princess  I will  marry, 

Who’ll  be  my  heart’s  delight ! ” 


MY  ANNA’S  EYES. 

Air  — “ The  Summer  is  come.” 


i. 

Where  shines  the  sun  on  Cummeragh’s  dells, 
Far,  far  away  my  Anna  dwells, 

And  there  her  eyes  first  beamed  on  me, 

And  chained  my  heart  eternally. 

I sit  alone,  that  memory  rise 
Of  sunny  hopes  and  golden  ties, 

Of  smiles  that  beam  like  morning  skies 
Within  her  large,  blue,  loving  eyes ! 

ii. 

Saint  Anne’s  lone  well  is  bordered  round 
With  golden  moss  and  fairy  mound ; 

There  harebells  glow  like  sapphire  gem : 

My  Anna’s  eyes  are  blue  like  them. 

I sit  alone,  that  memory  rise 
Of  sunny  hopes  and  golden  ties, 

Of  smiles  that  beam  like  morning  skies 
Within  my  Anna’s  loving  eyes ! 

hi. 

Where’er  she  walks,  by  hill  or  stream, 

On  all  those  eyes  of  glory  beam, 

With  sweet  and  gentle  rays  that  are 
Like  splendors  of  the  evening  star. 

I sit  alone,  that  memor)r  rise 
Of  sunny  hopes  and  golden  ties, 

Of  smiles  that  beam  like  morning  skies 
Within  my  Anna’s  loving  eyes ! 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


291 


IV. 

And  there  is  more  than  common  light, 
Far  dearer  still,  to  make  them  bright,  — 
Fond  rays,  that  pure  and  freshly  dart 
From  sinless  soul  and  sunny  heart. 

Then  lone  I sit,  that  memory  rise 
Of  sunny  hopes  and  golden  ties, 

Of  smiles  that  beam  like  morning  skies 
Within  her  large,  blue,  loving  eyes  ! 


THE  BLIND  GIRL  OF  GLENORE. 

Air  — “ The  Summer  shines  around  me.” 


I. 

The  summer  shines  around  me, 

With  its  blooms  and  shady  bowers, 
But  I cannot  see  the  glory 

Of  the  meadows  and  the  flowers ; 
Once  to  me  the  golden  summer 
Was  all  one  lapse  of  light, 

Till  the  red,  red  lightning  struck  me, 
And  withered  up  my  sight. 

Ah!  Donall,  Donall, 

Donall  of  Glenore, 

Give  me  back  the  heart  I gave  you 
In  the  sunny  days  of  yore. 


ii. 

Do  you  rnind  the  sunlit  meadow 

Where  the  Funcheon  murmurs  past, 
Where  you  vowed  one  silent  even 
That  your  love  should  ever  last? 

I have  now  no  friends  to  love  me  — - 
In  Molagga’s  yard  lie  they  — 

And  the  blindness,  O ! the  blindness 
Is  upon  me  night  and  day ! 

Ah ! Donall,  Donall, 

Donall  of  Glenore, 

Give  me  back  the  heart  I gave  you 
In  the  sunny  days  of  yore. 


292 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


III. 

They  tell  me  in  the  village 

That  your  heart  to  me  is  changed ; 
But  your  words  have  never  told  me 
That  you  wish  to  be  estranged ; 

Yet  I will  not  cloud  the  gladness 
Of  a heart  so  kind  and  free  — 

O,  this  blindness  ! O,  this  blindness ! 
Sad  the  doom  it  brought  to  me ! 

Ah!  Donall,  Donall, 

Donall  of  Glenore, 

Give  me  hack  the  heart  I gave  you 
In  the  sunny  days  of  yore. 


IV. 

Place  your  hand  upon  my  temples, 

Feel  the  hot  blood  pulsing  through ; — 
Is  it  pain  of  bitter  sickness, 

Or  pain  of  love  for  you? 

’Tis  the  bitter,  bitter  fever 
That  is  burning  in  my  brain, 

While  I strive  that  love  to  banish 

Till  my  heart-strings  crack  and  strain. 
Ah ! Donall,  Donall, 

Donall  of  Glenore, 

Give  me  back  the  heart  I gave  you 
In  the  sunny  days  of  yore. 


v. 

Donall  took  the  hand  of  Nora 
On  that  lovely  morning-tide, 

He  led  her  to  the  chapel, 

And  he  made  her  there  his  bride. 

O ! to  find  a pair  so  happy 

You  should  travel  far  and  wide, 

As  the  blind  maid  and  her  Donall 
By  the  Funcheon’s  flowery  side ! 

Ah ! Donall,  Donall, 

Donall  of  Glenore ; 

Still  he  loved  her,  as  he  loved  her 
In  the  sunny  days  of  yore ! 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


293 


FAIR  KATE  OF  GLENANNER, 

Air— “ Fair  Kate.” 


i. 

The  sunlight  is  sleeping  on  Cummeragh’s  wild  mountain, 

And  gay  shine  the  blossoms  by  dingle  and  fountain ; 

Sweet  murmurs  the  stream  where  the  soft  breezes  fan  her, 

And  bright  at  my  side  sits  fair  Kate  of  Glenanner. 

ii. 

The  boughs  of  the  elms  in  the  cool  breeze  are  swaying, 

With  the  clear  waves  beneath  towards  the  wide  ocean  playing, 
And  the  tall  ferns  wave  like  a green  sunlit  banner, 

While  I whisper  my  love  to  fair  Kate  of  Glenanner. 

hi. 

She  smiles  as  she  points  at  the  sunny  wave  near  me, 

And  I wish  for  a boat  with  its  white  sail  to  bear  me 

From  that  spot,  from  the  stream  where  the  gray  arches  span  her. 

To  some  green  isle  of  love  with  fair  Kate  of  Glenanner. 


SONG  OF  THE  FOREST  FAIRY. 

Air  — “ The  Fairy  Man.” 

i. 

Where  the  gold  moss  hangs  on  the  mighty  oak, 
Where  never  was  heard  the  woodman’s  stroke, 
In  the  ancient  woods, 

Where  the  wild  deer  bide  — 

Where  the  heron  broods, 

By  the  lakelet’s  side, 

Morn,  noon,  and  eve,  in  the  rosy  air, 

We  dance  full  merrily  there,  O,  there  ! 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


II. 

At  night,  in  a glade  of  the  brightest  green, 

We  meet  with  fond  homage  our  youthful  queen : 

There  in  revel  and  feast 
We  spend  the  night, 

Or  in  balmy  rest 

Till  the  morning  light, 

When  out  on  the  greensward,  smooth  and  fair, 

We  dance  so  merrily  there,  O,  there! 

hi. 

’Tis  glorious  to  see  the  globes  of  dew 
By  the  red  beams  of  morn  pierced  through  and  through ; 
’Tis  sweet  to  peer 

Where  the  wild-flower  gleams, 

And  sweeter  to  hear 

The  birds  and  the  streams ; 

And  sweeter  than  all  in  the  blue,  bright  air, 

To  dance  so  merrily  there,  O,  there ! 


TO  A BIRD. 


Whence  art  thou,  0 delightful  bird, 

That  sittest  on  the  leafy  bough? 

Thy  cheery  note,  so  long  unheard, 

Calms  my  sad  soul  and  smooths  my  brow. 

What  sunny  climes  hast  thou  explored, 

What  wide  seas’  foam,  what  deserts’  dearth, 

Since  first  thy  wings  resplendent  soared 
Up  from  thy  native  spot  of  earth? 

ii. 

Thou  need’st  not  at  my  greeting  start, 

For,  comrade,  who  could  work  thee  harm? 

Could  fright  thy  little  trusting  heart, 

Or  spoil  thy  bright  wing’s  painted  charm? 

Whence  comest  thou,  O minstrel  gay? 
Perchance  far,  far  beyond  the  foam 

Thou  sat’st  upon  the  wildwood  spray 
To  sing  beside  my  native  home  ! 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


295 


III. 

O,  comrade  of  the  tuneful  craft, 

Could  I but  dream  a song  like  thine, 

I’d  sing  how  summer  breezes  waft 

Their  perfumes  round  that  spot,  — how  twine 
The  sweetbrier  and  the  woodland  rose 

Through  that  blithe  vale  my  song  should  tell, 
And  how  like  wreaths  of  fragrant  snows 
The  hawthorn  hedge  blooms  up  the  dell. 


IV. 

Deep  in  my  soul  thy  heavenly  strain 
Lights  one  great  flash  of  memory,  — 
I see  that  valley  green  again, 

The  rural  home  and  guardian  tree, 
The  purple  hill,  the  spreading  wold, 
The  ruined  tower  and  village  spire, 
Meadow  and  streamlet,  as  of  old, 
Bathed  in  the  level  sunset  fire ! 


v. 

I hear  the  ringdove  from  the  wood 
Coo  to  his  mate  with  plaintive  call, 

The  skylark  from  his  golden  cloud, 

The  murmuring  of  the  waterfall ; 

The  merry  milkmaid’s  roundelay, 

The  airy  ploughboy’s  whistle  keen, 

The  children  at  their  jocund  play 
Around  the  hawthorn  on  the  green. 

VI. 

And  ’neath  that  hawthorn’s  perfumed  shade 
I sit  again,  while  sunset  dies, 

Beside  my  first-loved  village  maid, 

And  gaze  into  her  clear  blue  eyes, 

Till  the  old  love-dream  lights  once  more 
Within  my  breast  its  rapturous  flame, 
With  warmth  of  life,  nor  foreign  shore, 

Nor  joy,  nor  grief,  nor  chance  can  tame! 

VII. 

And  those  blithe  friends  in  life’s  young  day 
Who  danced  beneath  that  blooming  tree, 


296 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


O minstrel ! tell  me  where  are  the}’, 

And  have  they  all  forgotten  me? 

Farewell!  Thou  spread’st  thy  shining  wing 
To  visit  isles  beyond  the  foam. 

Thou’rt  gone  — and  where  ? Perchance  to  sing 
My  memory  into  hearts  at  home  ! 


THE  STIRRUP-CUP. 


i. 

Comrades,  to  you  I give  the  hand, 

Who  hate  with  me  the  tyrant’s  rule; 
Who  fight  with  me  for  old  Ireland, 

And  learn  with  me  in  Freedom’s  school, 
By  night  and  day, 

To  walk  the  way 

That  leads  direct  to  Freedom’s  shrine : 
Then  fill  me  up 
A stirrup-cup ; 

I’ll  pledge  you  in  a stoup  o’  wine ! 


ii. 

Long  years  ground  down,  and,  passion-blind, 
Our  peasants,  ’neath  each  tyrant’s  reign, 
Helped  their  false  lords  with  darkened  mind 
To  clasp  more  firm  their  helot’s  chain ; 

But  now  they  see 
True  Liberty, 

A foe  to  every  feudal  line : 

Then  fill  me  up 
A stirrup-cup ; 

I’ll  pledge  them  in  a stoup  o’  wine ! 
in. 

The  hireling  sells  his  land  for  pay, 

And  flaunts  the  red  of  England’s  queen; 
But,  praise  to  Heaven  ! no  hirelings  they 
Who  wear  our  everlasting  green ; 

For  Ireland’s  good 
In  brotherhood, 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS.  297 

Self-interest  nobly  they  resign : 

Then  fill  me  up 
A stirrup-cup ; 

I’ll  pledge  them  in  a stoup  o’  wine ! 

IV. 

Our  lords,  — come,  tell  me  who  are  they, 

And  tell  it  with  a freeman’s  tongue  ? — 

In  Cromwell’s  time,  and  William’s  day, 

Base  churls,  from  scamps  and  scullions  sprung ! 
But  bard  and  sage, 

And  History’s  page, 

Our  peasants  prove  of  noble  line  : 

Then  fill  me  up 
A stirrup-cup ; 

I’ll  pledge  them  in  a stoup  o’  wine  ! 


v. 

Ah  ! Freedom  may  be  dearly  bought, 

When  bought  with  many  a brave  man’s  gore ; 
But  better  die  like  those  who  fought 
And  fell  round  Ireland’s  flag  of  yore ; 

Then  bear  the  pain, 

And  drag  the  chain, 

’Neath  whose  fell  links  our  brothers  pine : 

Then  fill  me  up 
A stirrup-cup ; 

I’ll  pledge  them  in  a stoup  o’  wine ! 


VI. 

Give  me  your  hands,  brave  brothers  round, 
Stripling  and  war-worn  soldier  keen ; 

In  Irish  hands,  on  Irish  ground, 

The  glittering  pike  once  more  is  seen, 
With  sword  and  gun, 

And  Freedom’s  sun 
Will  light  us  to  their  battle  line  : 

So  fill  me  up 
A stirrup-cup,  — 

I pledge  you  in  a stoup  o’  wine ! 


298 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


HOW  SARSFIELD  DIED  IN  GLORY. 

Air  — “ Rodney’s  Glory ; ” or, *«  The  Princess  Royal.” 


I. 

’Twas  in  that  sad  and  woful  year 
Of  war  and  famine,  death  and  fear, 
When  Ireland  lowered  her  banner  spear 
On  Limerick’s  turrets  hoary, 

We  took  to  ship  and  sailed  the  sea 
Unto  the  shore  of  Normandie, 

And  then  once  more  our  banner  free 
Flashed  to  the  ray 
In  many  a fray, 

And  victor  saw  that  bloody  day 
When  Sarsfield  died  in  glory ! 


ii. 

The  morn  rose  red  on  Landen  plain, 

King  William  charged  o’er  heaps  of  slain, 
And  Frenchmen’s  blood  poured  out  like  rain 
Upon  the  field  so  gory; 

To  stem  his  onset  vain  they  tried, 

As  on  he  swept  in  warlike  pride, 

Till  Luxemburg,  our  marshal  cried, 

“ New  force  we  want 
To  bear  the  brunt, 

So  bring  the  Irish  to  the  front ! ” 

Where  Sarsfield  died  in  glory. 

hi. 

Then  you  should  hear  our  slogan  roar, 

Loud  swell  the  din  of  battle  o’er, 

As  forward  our  battalions  bore 

To  change  the  Frenchman’s  story ; 

Against  the  foe  our  strength  we  threw, 

And  mixed  us  in  the  bloody  brew, 

While  swords  and  spears  in  flinders  flew, 
And  grape  and  shot 
And  bullets  hot 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


299 


Bained  round  the  crimson,  fatal  spot 
Where  Sarsfield  died  in  glory ! 


IV. 

There,  like  the  holt  that  from  on  high 
Tears  roaring  through  the  storm-wracked  sky, 
And  on  the  trembling  ground  anigh 
In  thunder  bursts  before  ye ; 

So  our  brave  chieftain  ’neath  the  ball, 

In  thundering  clangor  met  his  fall, 

But  rallying  at  his  dying  call, 

With  deafening  shout, 

Our  foemen  stout, 

We  swept  away  in  bloody  rout, 

Where  Sarsfield  died  in  glory ! 

v. 

His  hand  upon  the  wound  he  pressed, 

Sad  sinking  to  his  final  rest, 

Then  took  it  from  his  gallant  breast, 

With  his  hot  life-blood  gory  — 

“ O,  would,”  the  dying  hero  cried, 

“That  this  my  heart’s  ensanguined  tide 
Had  stained  some  native  mountain  side 
For  old  Ireland ! ” 

Then  dropped  his  hand, 

And  midst  our  tearful,  conquering  band 
Brave  Sarsfield  died  in  glory ! 

VI. 

Then  all  good  men,  where’er  you  be, 

Who  fought  for  Ireland’s  liberty, 

Our  hero  brave  lament  with  me, 

And  ponder  well  his  story ; 

And  pray,  like  him,  that  you  may  die 
Beneath  old  Ireland’s  genial  sky, 

With  Saxon  dead  piled  mountains  high, 

The  spot  around 
Where  you  have  found 
The  hero’s  death  on  Irish  ground 
That  Sarsfield  died  in  glory ! 


800 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


DONAL  O’KEEFFE’S  LAMENT. 

Air  — “ She’s  a dear  Maid  to  roe.” 


I. 

My  name  is  Donal  Dhu  — an  outlaw  bold  and  true, 

I ranged  the  country  through,  from  Saxon  bondage  free, 
Till  I loved  a maiden  fair,  with  her  glossy,  curling  hair, 
But  she  sunk  me  in  despair  — she’s  a dear  maid  to  me ! 


ii. 

My  sires  were  princes  grand,  within  old  Ireland’s  land : 

With  many  a knightly  band  they  held  their  castles  free, 
Till  the  Saxon  with  them  strove  — an  outlaw  now  I rove, 
Lamenting  my  false  love  — she’s  a dear  maid  to  me  ! 

hi. 

Pier  brow  like  wintry  snows,  her  cheeks  were  like  the  rose 
That  nigh  Blackwater  blows  when  summer  decks  the  tree; 
Her  dark  eyes  glittered  bright,  full,  full  of  love’s  delight,  — 
They  haunt  me  day  and  night  — she’s  a dear  maid  to  me ! 


IV. 

With  gems  of  costly  sheen  I decked  my  mountain  queen, 
And  glorious  was  her  mien  of  beauty  fresh  and  free; 
Her  step  was  like  the  fawn  on  Araglin’s  wild  lawn, 

Her  smile  was  like  the  dawn — she’s  a dear  maid  to  me ! 


v. 

Margaret  Kelly  was  her  name,  and  burning  was  the  flame 
That  o’er  our  bosoms  came  when  we  first  loved  trustingly; 
But  her  love  grew  false  and  cold,  and  her  outlaw’s  life  she  sold 
For  the  Saxon’s  worthless  gold  — she’s  a dear  maid  to  me ! 


VI. 

0 ! woful  was  the  hour  that  revenge  o’er  me  had  power 

To  slay  my  beauteous  flower,  when  I knew  her  perfidy  — 

1 drew  my  skian  unblessed,  and  with  rage  and  grief  possessed, 
I plunged  it  in  her  breast  — she’s  a dear  maid  to  me ! 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


801 


VII. 

And  now  I’ve  ’scaped  the  chain,  and  now  I’m  free  again, 

On  many  a battle  plain  I will  let  the  Saxons  see 
What  their  traitor  wiles  shall  prove,  though  an  outlaw  still  I rove, 
Lamenting  my  false  love  — she’s  a dear  maid  to  me  ! 


FAIR  HELEN  OF  THE  DELL, 

Air  — “ The  Dark  Maid  of  the  Dell.” 


I. 

Though  joy  his  flowers  be  twining, 
And  thou  in  beauty  shining, 

Yet  O ! in  joy’s  declining 
I’d  love  thee  still  as  well ; 
Wherever  fortune  lead  thee, 

Or  wind  or  wave  can  speed  thee, 
This  true  heart  still  shall  heed  thee, 
Fair  Helen  of  the  Dell. 


ii. 

I’ve  never  yet  beholden 
A form  so  finely  moulden, 

Thy  hair  a sunset  golden, 

Thy  voice  the  clear  harp’s  swell ; 

Thine  eyes  have  Heaven’s  own  brightness, 
Thy  neck  the  lily’s  whiteness, 

Thy  step  the  hill-stream’s  lightness, 

Fair  Helen  of  the  Dell. 

hi. 

Few  summers  thou  hast  numbered; 

Thy  heart  to  this  has  slumbered ; 

Love  leads  it  now  uncumbered 
In  his  bright  bowers  to  dwell; 

He  casts  his  splendor  o’er  thee, 

He  walks  in  light  before  thee, 

That  I may  wild  adore  thee, 

Fair  Helen  of  the  Dell. 


302 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


THE  PUNCH  BOWL;  OR,  THE  CROPPY’S 
FINGER. 

Air  — “ Come  all  you  jolly  Shepherds.” 


“ Rise  up,  rise  up,  Pat  Randal, 

And  take  the  corn  to  town ; 

Our  rent  is  due  next  Saturday, 

Full  five  and  twenty  poun’ ; 

The  morn  is  breaking  early, 

I hear  the  wild  birds’  song,  — 

Rise  up,  rise  up,  Pat  Randal, 

You’re  waiting  there  too  long ! ” 

Hey  the  jolly  Punch  bowl, 

Best  on  Irish  ground, 

And  hey  the  Dead  Man’s  finger 
That  stirred  it  round  and  round ! 


ii. 

Up  and  waked  Pat  Randal, 

And  looked  upon  his  bride, 

Where,  like  a dew-bright  lily, 

She  stood  by  his  bedside  : 

“ God’s  blessing  on  you,  Mary, 

This  lovely  summer  morn.” 

And  up  and  rose  Pat  Randal, 

And  took  to  town  his  corn. 

Hey  the  jolly  Punch  bowl, 

Best  on  Irish  ground, 

And  hey  the  Dead  Man’s  finger 
That  stirred  it  round  and  round ! 

in. 

“ Yield  up  ! yield  up,  base  Croppy ! 

You  fought  at  Arklow  glen,” 

Up  spoke  the  English  captain, 

With  all  his  loyal  men ; 

“You  fought  at  Arklow  glen,”  he  said, 
“ And  Oulart’s  bloody  heath, 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


303 


And  for  that  same,  false  Irish  dog, 

Now  you  shall  die  the  death  ! ” 

Hey  the  jolly  Punch  bowl, 

Best  on  Irish  ground, 

And  hey  the  Dead  Man’s  finger, 
That  stirred  it  round  and  round ! 


IV. 

Out  answered  bold  Pat  Randal, 

“Yes,  and  at  Wexford  town; 

And  ’twas  from  Eniscorthy’s  gate 
I tore  your  red  flag  down ! 

At  Ross  and  Tubber’neering’s  Pass, 

I’ll  ne’er  deny  the  same  — 

Give  me  a sword,  and  with  you  all 
I’ll  play  again  that  game  ! ” 

Hey  the  jolly  Punch  bowl, 

Best  on  Irish  ground, 

And  hey  the  Dead  Man’s  finger, 
That  stirred  it  round  and  round ! 

v. 

Long,  long  poor  Mary  Randal 
Her  woful  watch  shall  keep, 

In  heart-consuming  sorrow 
Her  gallant  husband  weep, 

For  by  the  lonesome  highway 
The  Murdered  lies  at  rest, 

A finger  lopped  from  his  right  hand, 
Ten  bullets  in  his  breast ! 

Hey  the  jolly  Punch  bowl, 

Best  on  Irish  ground, 

And  hey  the  Dead  Man’s  finger 
That  stirred  it  round  and  round ! 


VI. 

It  was  the  English  captain 
Amused  his  guests  that  night, 

It  was  his  lovely  daughter 
With  ringlets  golden  bright, 

That  took  the  Croppy’s  finger, 

And  with  it  stirred  the  draught, 
While  to  Ireland’s  deep  damnation 
The  rousing  punch  they  quaffed ! 


804  SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 

Hey  the  jolly  Punch  bowl, 

Best  on  Irish  ground, 

And  hey  the  Dead  Man’s  finger 
That  stirred  it  round  and  round ! 

VII. 

Like  the  Cross  that  to  Constantine 
Showed  victory  from  the  skies, 

May  that  murdered  Croppy’s  finger 
Blaze  yet  before  our  eyes, 

In  the  Day  of  Retribution 

Pointing  out  bright  Freedom’s  way, 
Till  my  country’s  brave  battalions 
Sweep  the  English  power  away ! 

And  hey  the  jolly  Punch  bowl, 

Best  on  Irish  ground, 

And  the  Croppy’s  gory  finger 
That  stirred  it  round  and  round. 


THE  DRINAN  DHUN. 

Air — “ The  Drinan  Dhim.” 


I. 

By  road  and  by  river  the  wild  birds  sing; 

O’er  mountain  and  valley  the  dewy  leaves  spring; 
The  gay  flowers  are  shining,  gilt  o’er  by  the  sun ; 
And  fairest  of  all  shines  the  Drinan  Dhun. 


ii. 

The  rath  of  the  fairy,  the  ruin  hoar, 

With  white  silver  splendor  it  decks  them  all  o’er; 
And  down  in  the  valleys  where  merry  streams  run, 
How  sweet  smell  the  blossoms  of  the  Drin&n  Dhun. 

hi. 

Ah  ! well  I remember  the  soft  spring  day 
I sat  by  my  love  ’neath  its  sweet-scented  spray ; 

The  day  that  she  told  me  her  heart  I had  won, 
Beneath  the  white  blossoms  of  the  Drinan  Dhun. 


.SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


305 


IV. 

The  streams  they  were  singing  their  gladsome  song, 
The  soft  winds  were  blowing  the  wildwoods  among, 
The  mountains  shone  bright  in  the  red  setting  sun, 
And  my  love  in  my  arms  ’neatli  the  Drinan  Dliun ! 


y. 

’Tis  my  prayer  in  the  morning,  my  dream  at  night, 

To  sit  thus  again  by  my  heart’s  dear  delight, 

With  her  blue  eyes  of  gladness,  her  hair  like  the  sun, 
And  her  sweet,  loving  kisses,  ’neath  the  Drinan  Dliun. 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LIMERICK. 

Air  — “ Cul  awling  deas.” 


i. 

By  William  led,  the  English  sped, 

With  musket,  sword,  and  cannon, 

To  sweep  us  all  from  Limerick’s  wall, 
And  drown  us  in  the  Shannon ; 

But  we  bethought  how  well  they  fought, 
Our  fathers  there  before  us  ; 

We  raised  on  high  our  charging  cry, 
And  flung  our  green  flag  o’er  us  ! 


ii. 

For  days  on  days  their  cannon’s  blaze 
Flashed  by  the  blood-stained  water; 

The  breach  is  done,  and  up  they  run, 

Five  hundred  to  the  slaughter ; 

They  crossed  the  breach  beyond  our  reach  — 
New  foes  fresh  work  supplied  us  — 

Our  women  brave,  their  homes  to  save, 

Soon  slew  them  all  inside  us ! 

hi. 

Though  through  the  smoke  their  army  broke, 
With  cannons  booming  solemn, 

We  would  not  flinch,  but  inch  for  inch 
Opposed  its  bristling  column ; 

20 


BONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


Three  times  we  dashed  them  back,  and  smashed 
Their  lines  with  shot  and  sabre, 

And  nought  had  they  at  close  of  day 
But  thinned  ranks  for  their  labor. 


IV. 

With  angry  word  then  said  their  lord, 

“ Our  foes  are  better,  braver ! ” 

Then  fled  he  straight  from  Limerick’s  gate, 
For  he  could  not  enslave  her; 

Then  raised  we  high  our  triumph  cry, 
Where  battle’s  chances  found  us, 

With  corse,  and  gun,  and  red  flags  strewn, 
And  blood  and  ruin  round  us  ! 


WHATEVER  WIND  IS  BLOWING. 

Air  — “ Where  have  you  been  ? ” 


I. 

My  heart’s  not  made  to  freeze  and  fade 
On  sorrow’s  stony  mountains, 

But  aye  it  turns,  and  O ! it  burns 
To  drink  at  Pleasure’s  fountains ! 
Then  I will  drink  what  best  I think 
To  cool  its  hot  thirst  glowing, 
And  love  shall  be  first  guide  to  me, 
Whatever  wind  is  blowing. 


ii. 

When  woe  calls  down  night’s  darksome  frown, 
With  not  a star  for  warning. 

One  thought  of  two  sweet  eyes  of  blue 
Soon  brings  the  glorious  morning. 

Still  o’er  my  way,  with  blessed  ray, 

May  love’s  calm  light  be  glowing, 

And  honor  too  still  guide  me  through, 
Whatever  wind  is  blowing. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS.  307 


GLENORA. 

Air  — “ Banalana.” 


O,  fondest  and  fairest! 

O,  lovely  Glenora! 

The  sweet  smile  thou  wearest, 
Glenora!  Glenora! 

It  pictures  red  roses 
When  summer  discloses 
Their  bright  buds  the  rarest  — 
Glenora!  Glenora! 


ii. 

The  hill-stream  down  flinging, 
O,  lovely  Glenora ! 

Its  sweetest  song  singing, 
Glenora!  Glenora! 

Reminds  me  of  thee,  love, 

Thy  step  light  and  free,  love, 
Thy  gay  laugh  outringing, 
Glenora!  Glenora! 

hi. 

Like  wings  of  the  raven, 

O,  lovely  Glenora! 

’Gainst  snowy  clouds  waven, 
Glenora!  Glenora! 

Thy  black  tresses  twine  on 
Thy  shoulders,  or  shine  on 
Thy  bosom’s  white  heaven, 
Glenora!  Glenora! 


IV. 

O,  fragrant  and  bloom-bright, 

O,  lovely  Glenora ! 

The  sword  and  the  plume  bright, 
Glenora!  Glenora! 


308 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


May  win  a high  name,  love, 
On  war’s  field  of  fame,  love, 
My  life  to  illume  bright, 
Glenora!  Glenora! 

v. 

But  never,  0,  never, 

My  lovely  Glenora! 

Shall  fortune  dissever, 
Glenora ! Glenora ! 

Our  true  hearts  confiding, 

In  love  fondly  gliding 
Down  life's  winding  river, 
Glenora!  Glenora! 


I SIT  ON  THE  HOLD  OF  MOYALLO. 

Air  — “ Through  Mallow  without  my  Armor.” 


I sit  on  the  hold  of  Moyallo, 

And  look  on  the  Blackwater  stream, 

As  it  bounds  from  the  moors  of  Duhaliow, 

And  shines  in  the  gay  summer  beam  : ~ 

And  I dream  of  a nation  uprisen 

From  its  dark  night  of  bondage  and  gloom  — 
A captive,  long  pining  in  prison, 

Restored  to  day’s  beauty  and  bloom. 


ii. 

I look  from  the  light  dancing  water. 

O’er  steep  hill,  and  wild  wood,  and  mound, 

Where  many  a dark  day  of  slaughter 
Hath  reddened  the  green  vales  around : 

Of  vengeance  I am  not  a dreamer 

For  the  true  blood  there  spilt  long  ago, 

Though  I dream  that  mere  words  won't  redeem  her, 
Green  Erin,  from  bondage  and  woe. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


309 


III. 

Long,  long  we  have  asked  to  restore  us 
Our  freedom,  and  still  we  are  slaves  : 
’Twas  thus  with  our  fathers  before  us, 

And  bondmen  they  went  to  their  graves  : 
The  wish,  and  the  faint  heart  to  slack  it, 
Have  failed,  since  the  green  earth  began ; 
The  wish,  and  the  brave  hand  to  back  it, 
.’Tis  that  makes  the  patriot  man ! 


iv. 

From  the  north  to  the  blue  southern  water, 
Who  wish  for  their  freedom  again, 

Should  ask  no  revenge  for  each  slaughter, 
But  rise  up  like  brave,  honest  men ; 

And  when  by  the  word  or  the  sabre 
We’ve  righted  the  wrongs  we  deplore, 
Like  men,  and  not  slaves,  with  our  neighbor 
We’d  prosper  in  peace  evermore. 


MY  FIRST  LOVE. 

Air  — “ My  Love  is  like  a Summer  Day.” 


i. 

Where  towers  the  rock  above  the  trees, 
With  heath-bells  blooming  o’er, 

Where  waves  the  fern  in  summer  breeze, 
And  shines  the  red  lusmore, 

In  woodland  nook  beside  the  brook, 

I sit  and  sadly  pore 
On  love  I nursed  in  boyhood  first 
For  one  111  ne’er  see  more. 


ii. 

How  fair,  when  shines  the  summer  beam 
Upon  the  mountains  warm, 

The  lady  fern  beside  the  stream  — 

As  fair  my  Margaret’s  form  : 


310 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


The  snow-white  crystals  shine  beneath, 

The  red  lusmores  above,  — 

Ah ! such  the  bright,  bright  laughing  teeth, 
And  lips  of  my  first  love  ! 

hi. 

The  gorse  flowers  Ullair’s  dells  illume, 

One  sea  of  golden  light; 

My  Margaret’s  hair  was  like  their  bloom, 
As  yellow  and  as  bright : 

’Twill  haunt  me  still,  through  joy  or  ill, 
Till  death  shall  end  my  care, 

The  wondrous  grace  of  her  fair  face 
Beneath  that  golden  hair. 

IV. 

I loved  her  with  a burning  love 
That  matched  my  boyhood  well, 

And  brilliant  were  the  dreams  I wove 
While  tfanced  in  that  sweet  spell ; 

And  in  my  breast  she’ll  reign  and  rest 
Each  eve  while  sad  I pore, 

Where  ferns  are  green  the  banks  between, 
And  shines  the  red  lusmore ! 


THE  RAPPAREE’S  HORSE  AND  SWORD. 

Air  — “ O ! say,  my  brown  drimin.” 


My  name  is  Mac  Sheehy,  from  FeaFs  swelling  flood, 
A rapparee  rover  by  mountain  and  wood  : 

I’ve  two  trusty  comrades  to  serve  me  at  need,  — 
This  sword  at  my  side,  and  my  gallant,  gray  steed. 


ii. 

Now  where  did  I get  them,  — my  gallant,  gray  steed, 
And  this  sword,  keen  and  trusty,  to  serve  me  at  need? 
This  sword  was  my  father’s  — in  battle  he  died  — 

And  I reared  bold  Isgur  by  Feal’s  woody  side. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


311 


III. 

I’ve  said  it,  and  say  it,  and  care  not  who  hear, 

Myself  and  gray  Isgur  have  never  known  fear : 

There’s  a dint  on  my  helmet,  a hole  through  his  ear : 
’Twas  the  same  bullet  made  them  at  Limerick  last  year ! 


IV. 

And  the  soldier  who  fired  it  was  still  ramming  down, 

When  this  long  sword  came  right  with  a slash  on  his  crown  ; 
Dhar  Dhia!  but  he’ll  ne’er  fire  a musket  again. 

For  his  skull  lies  in  two  at  the  side  of  the  glen ! 

v. 

When  they  caught  us  one  day  at  the  castle  of  Brugh, 

Of  our  black-hearted  foemen  the  deadliest  crew, 

Like  a bolt  from  the  thunder  gray  Isgur  went  through, 

And  my  sword ! long  they’ll  weep  at  the  sore  taste  of  you ! 


VI. 

Together  we  sleep  ’neath  the  wild  crag  or  tree,  — 
My  soul ! but  there  ne’er  were  such  comrades  as  we  ! 
I,  Brian  the  Rover,  my  two  friends  at  need, 

This  sword  at  my  side,  and  my  gallant,  gray  steed ! 


THE  JOVIAL 


CHRISTMAS  DAYS  LONG  AGO. 


Air  — “ Uluchan  Dhuv  O ! ” 


i. 

Through  the  murky  mist  of  years,  with  a sigh  and  silent  tears, 
I look  to  the  days  long  ago, 

To  the  gay  and  happy  time  when  with  story,  jest,  and  rhyme 
We  sat  by  the  fire’s  ruddy  glow ; 

When  the  eyes  that  shine  no  more  shone  around  the  merry  hearth 
Of  the  homestead  far  away  in  the  land  of  my  birth, 

And  the  jolly  rafters  rang  to  the  music  and  the  mirth 
Of  the  jovial  Christmas  days  long  ago  ! 


812 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


n. 

From  its  mighty  guardian  hill  there’s  a merry,  murmuring  rill, 
Dancing  down  through  the  valley  of  Glenroe; 

There’s  a green  wood  smiling  fair,  and  a lordly  castle  there, 

And  a homestead  by  tyranny  laid  low ; 

My  blessing  on  that  home,  and  the  hours  of  gay  delight 
With  my  friends  around  its  hearth  each  returning  festive  night, 
With  the  eyes  of  her  I loved  shining  on  me  fond  and  bright, 

In  the  jovial  Christmas  days  long  ago  ! 

hi. 

O ! Heaven  be  with  the  day  when  with  youthful  hearts  and  gay, 
We  longed  for  the  blithe  Christmas  snow 
To  cast  its  mantle  white  from  the  towering  mountain  height 
To  the  glens  and  the  shining  dales  below ; 

In  each  sad,  exiled  heart  fond  the  memory  remains 

Of  the  Christmas  candles  burning  in  the  glowing  window  panes : 

Of  the  feasting  and  the  dancing  to  the  piper’s  merry  strains, 

In  the  jovial  Christmas  days  long  ago  ! 


IV. 

Whate’er  my  fate  may  be,  and  whatever  climes  I see, 

Far  from  Erin  and  lovely  Glenroe, 

My  anger  red  shall  rise  when  I think  how  lowly  lies 
Each  home  ’neath  the  tyrant’s  cruel  blow ; 

And  I’ll  pray  to  God  on  high  to  strike  dead  the  tyrant’s  hand, 
And  to  give  the  lonely  exiles  back  again  their  native  land, 

With  the  merriment,  the  music,  and  the  feasting  high  and  grand 
Of  the  jovial  Christmas  days  long  ago  l 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


313 


MARYANNE. 

Air  — “ John  the  Journeyman.” 

I. 

In  sweet  Tipperary  dwells  my  love, 

Where  Sliabhnamon  stands  tall  above, 

And  from  that  hill  to  banks  of  Ban. 

There’s  not  a girl  like  Maryanne  ! 

O,  fair  the  face  of  Maryanne ! 

O,  warm  the  heart  of  Maryanne ! 

From  Sliabhnamon  to  northern  Ban 
There’s  not  a girl  like  Maryanne. 

ii. 

My  girl  is  artless  as  a child, 

So  fair  and  modest,  fond  and  mild; 

Not  all  the  verses  made  by  man 
Could  tell  the  charms  of  Maryanne. 

O,  fair  the  face  of  Maryanne ! 

O,  fond  the  heart  of  Maryanne ! 

Not  all  the  verses  made  by  man 
Could  tell  the  charms  of  Maryanne. 

hi. 

Her  glossy  hair  is  black  as  night, 

And  dark,  deep  blue  her  eyes  of  light; 

Like  midnight  stars  o’er  Heaven’s  blue  span, 
The  sparkling  eyes  of  Maryanne. 

O,  fair  the  face  of  Maryanne ! 

*0,  fond  the  heart  of  Maryanne ! 

Like  midnight  stars  o’er  Heaven’s  blue  span, 
The  sparkling  eyes  of  Maryanne ! 

IV. 

My  soul  is  sad,  my  heart  is  sore, 

To  think  I ne’er  may  see  her  more ; 

For  ne’er  was  girl,  since  youth  began, 

So  dear  to  me  as  Maryanne ! 

O,  fair  the  face  of  Maryanne ! 

O,  warm  the  heart  of  Maryanne ! 

From  Sliabhnamon  to  northern  Ban 
There’s  not  a girl  like  Maryanne  ! 


314 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS.. 


THE  OAKS  OF  GLENEIGH. 


i. 

O,  think  of  the  days  when  the  crag’s  hoary  masses 
Bent  o’er  one  green  forest  in  Houra’s  wild  passes, 

When  the  gray  wolf  was  king  of  the  forest  and  mountain, 
And  the  red  deer  ran  free  by  the  blue  torrent’s  shore, 
When  the  prey  scarcely  rested  at  eve  by  the  fountain, 
Swept  on  by  the  spear  of  the  wild  creacliadore! 


ii. 

’Twas  a brave  time  — a wild  time  — the  hills  seem  to  mourn 

Till  the  splendor  of  glade  and  of  forest  return; 

Yet  is  there  not  splendor  as  wild  and  as  shaggy, 

Where  the  huge  blasted  roots  of  that  forest  remain, 

Wide  spread  o’er  each  deep  cave  and  precipice  craggy, 
Sending  scions  of  strength  to  the  blue  sky  again  ? 

hi. 

Afar  where  Molama  in  thunder  is  flowing, 

Afar  in  Gleneigh  are  these  strong  scions  growing  — 

They  spring  from  the  stream  and  they  tower  from  the  ledges 
Of  the  huge  rocks  which  frowm  o’er  that  wild  fairy  dell ; 
Like  young  guardian  giants  encircling  the  edges 

Of  the  deep,  silent  pool  and  the  moss-wreathed  well. 

IV. 

How  thick  in  the  summer  their  green  leaves  were  shining ! 

How  sear  and  how  scattered  at  autumn’s  declining ! . 

But  the  wild  hills  shall  see  them  far  greener  than  ever, 
When  winter  hath  fled  from  the  bright  smiles  of  May; 

Ah ! thus  should  Adversity’s  children  endeavor 

To  breast  the  rude  blasts,  like  the  oaks  of  Gleneigh ! 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


315 


BRAVE  DONALL. 

Air  — “ DonalPs  Lament.” 


I. 

I stray  alone  by  cove  and  cave, 
With  sad  eyes  looking  o’er  the  wave, 
And  heart  as  mournful  as  the  grave, 
Since  I lost  my  lover  brave ! 

O,  my  brave  Donall ! 

My  bold,  brave  Donall ! 

My  heart  is  in  your  foreign  grave, 
My  bold,  brave  Donall ! 


ii. 

Not  all  unknown  his  soldier  sire; 

Like  glory  did  my  love  require ; 

Till  fame  grew  in  his  heart  of  fire 
A burning  and  a wild  desire ! 

O,  my  brave  Donall ! 

My  bold,  brave  Donall ! 

What  more  than  love  could  you  require, 
My  bold,  brave  Donall? 

hi. 

Away  to  France  my  true  love  sped, 

To  join  the  bold  Brigade,  he  said; 

’Twas  ’neath  its  flag  in  battle  red 
His  only  brother  fought  and  bled ! 

O,  my  brave  Donall ! 

My  bold,  brave  Donall ! 

With  fair,  false  hopes  my  heart  you  fed, 
My  bold,  brave  Donall ! 


IV. 

*Twas  mounting  on  the  foeman’s  wall 
My  gallant  true  love  met  his  fall, 

But  dying,  saw  his  banner  tall 
Waving  in  victory  over  all ! 


316 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


O,  my  brave  Donall ! 

My  bold,  brave  Donall ! 

For  me  they  weave  the  funeral  pall, 

My  bold,  brave  Donall ! 

v. 

And  thus  I stray  where  Shannon’s  wave 
Moans  mournfully  by  cove  and  cave, 

My  sad  heart  in  that  far-off  grave, 
Where  sleeps  in  gore  my  lover  brave ! 
O,  my  brave  Donall ! 

My  bold,  brave  Donall ! 

My  heart  is  withering  in  your  grave, 

My  bold,  brave  Donall ! 


I STILL  AM  A ROVER. 

Air  — “ Bundle  and  go.” 


I. 

I still  am  a rover  our  green  island  over, 

A passion-fraught  lover  of  beauty  and  bloom, 

On  wild  mountains  pondering,  through  sweet  valleys  wandering, 
Where  soft  winds  are  squandering  the  blossoms’  perfume; 

From  all  those  dear  places,  the  bland  summer  graces, — 

From  all  their  fair  faces  my  heart  still  doth  stray, 

Where  clear  waves  are  flinging,  and  flowerets  are  springing, 
And  blithe  birds  are  singing  in  sunny  Gleneigh ! 

ii. 

There  green  woods  wave  slowly  to  winds  breathing  lowly, 

And  ruin  walls  holy  stand  gray  o’er  the  scene ; 

There  clear  fountains  rally  their  strength  in  each  valley, 

Where  waves  the  wild  sally  and  birch  leaves  are  green ; 

There  rocks  famed  in  story  stand  silent  and  hoary, 

And  fields  in  the  glory  of  summer  are  gay, 

And  mead  blossoms  muster  their  bells  of  bright  lustre, 

And  rich  berries  cluster  in  sunny  Gleneigh ! 

hi. 

Yet  ’tis  not  the  tender  sweet  beauty  and  splendor 
That  dwells  there  can  render  such  joy  to  my  breast; 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


317 


’Tis  love  has  arrayed  it,  and  decked  and  displayed  it, 

As  spring  never  made  it,  or  mild  summer  dressed : 

There  Grade  is  dwelling,  in  beauty  excelling, 

Her  bright  looks  still  telling  love  ne’er  can  decay, 

While  clear  waves  are  flinging,  and  flowerets  are  springing, 
And  blithe  birds  are  singing  in  sunny  Gleneigh ! 


MOLL  ROONE. 
A Rapparee  Song. 


i. 

There’s  a girl  in  Kilmurry,  my  own  loved  one, 

The  loveliest  caileen  that  the  sun  shines  on ; 

Her  eyes  are  as  bright  as  the  Maytide  moon, 

And  the  devil  a girl  like  my  own  Moll  Roone ! 

ii. 

I mounted  my  steed  in  the  evening  brown, 

And  away  I spurred  till  the  storm  came  down ; 

Away  over  mountains  and  moorlands  dun, 

Till  I came  to  the  cottage  of  my  own  Moll  Roone. 

hi. 

I sat  me  down  by  the  bogwood  fire, 

And  I said  that  her  love  was  my  heart’s  desire. 

And  she  gave  me  her  love.  O,  she  granted  my  boon, 
And  my  heart  was  glad  for  my  own  Moll  Roone. 


IV. 

Come,  what  is  the  use  of  a brave  brown  steed 
Rut  to  spur  to  the  doing  of  a gallant  deed? 

And  what  is  the  use  of  a sword  or  gun 

But  to  fight  for  a girl  like  my  own  Moll  Roone? 

Y. 

As  I rode  down  the  mountain  one  Saturday  night, 

The  valley  below  was  one  blaze  of  light, 

And  I found  out  its  meaning  full  sadly  and  soon,  — 
’Twas  the  foe  fired  the  cottage  of  my  own  Moll  Roone ! 


318 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


VI. 

I spurred  through  Blackwater,  o’er  brake  and  moor, 
I spurred  through  the  foe  to  her  cottage  door, 

There  my  sword  cleft  the  skull  of  a Dutch  dragoon, 
And  I bore  away  in  triumph  my  own  Moll  Roone ! 


THE  RIGHTS  OF  MAN. 

Air  — “ The  Old  Astrologer.” 


i. 

Though  he  was  born  to  till  the  soil. 

Or  ply  the  busy  trade, 

To  pamper  tyrants  by  his  toil 
The  poor  man  ne’er  was  made ; 

That  wondrous  flame,  the  soul’s  the  same 
In  poor  or  noble  clay, 

And  the  selfsame  laws  will  try  its  cause 
On  the  final  Judgment  Day! 

Then  here’s  the  son  of  poverty, 

Who  bravely  fills  his  can, 

And  drinks  with  me  to  Liberty, 

And  the  God-made  rights  of  man ! 


ii. 

The  reckless  despot  on  his  throne,  — 
Who  gave  him  right  to  sway  ? 

To  make  the  suffering  millions  groan 
In  bondage  day  by  day  ? 

Is  he  a god  that  with  his  rod 
Can  fill  unnumbered  graves  ? 

No ! blood  and  bone  he  still  must  own, 
He’s  mortal  like  his  slaves  ! 

Then  here’s  the  son  of  poverty, 

Who  fearless  fills  his  can, 

To  pledge  with  me  bright  Liberty, 
And  the  God-made  rights  of  man ! 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


319 


III. 

When  delved  great  Adam’s  progeny, 

And  our  primal  mothers  span,* 

There  was  no  difference  of  degree 
E’er  seen  ’twixt  man  and  man ; 

But  human  might,  ambition’s  flight 
Have  set  up  tyrants’  rule. 

A lesson  stern  the  nations  learn 
In  hard  misfortune’s  school ! 

So  here’s  the  son  of  poverty, 

Who  stoutly  fills  his  can, 

And  works  with  me  for  Liberty, 

And  the  God-made  rights  of  man ! 

IV. 

There  never  was  a law  divine, 

To  make  the  poor  bow  down 
To  mortal  man,  whate’er  his  line, 
However  bright  his  crown  : 

The  poor  man’s  blood  is  warm  and  good, 
And  red  as  his  who  reigns, 

And  why  should  he  bend  neck  or  knee  — 
Bow  silent  down  in  chains  ? 

So  here’s  the  son  of  poverty, 

Who  fills  a brimming  can, 

And  prays  with  me  for  Liberty, 

And  the  God-made  rights  of  man ! 

v. 

On  many  a plain,  with  fire  and  steel, 

The  poor  man’s  cause  was  tried, 

And  many  a deed  of  noble  zeal 
That  great  cause  sanctified ; 

For  that  good  cause,  for  righteous  laws, 
Arise,  prepare,  and  be 
Brave  patriots  all,  to  stand  or  fall 
Soldiers  of  Liberty! 

And  here’s  the  son  of  poverty, 

Who  clinks  with  mine  his  can  — 
Who’ll  strike  with  me  for  Liberty, 
And  the  God-made  rights  of  man ! 

* “ When  Adam  delved  and  Eve  span, 

Who  was  then  the  gentleman  ? ” 


820 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


THERE  IS  A TREE  IN  DARRA’S  WOOD. 

Air— “ Barrack  Hill.” 


I. 

There  is  a tree  in  Darra’s  wood 
That  bears  the  rose-red  berry, 

Where  sweetly  sings  the  fairy  flood 
With  cadence  wild  and  merry ; 

O Love,  like  berries  of  that  tree, 

Thy  red  lips  smile  so  dearly, 

And  like  that  stream’s  glad  minstrelsy, 

Thy  laugh  rings  soft  and  clearly ! 

So  clearly,  so  clearly, 

So  witching,  soft,  and  clearly, 

That  evermore  I must  adore 

And  love  thee,  true  love,  dearly ! 

ii. 

Beneath  that  tree  I’ve  built  a bower, 

Its  roof  with  love-knots  twining, 

And  there  the  snowy  shamrock  flower 
And  blue-bells  gay  are  shining; 

I’ve  built  a bower  within  my  breast, 

And  placed  thee  on  its  throne,  love, 

And  ever  there  I’ll  love  thee  best, 

My  dark-eyed  Grace,  my  own  love ! 

My  own  love,  my  own  love, 

I’ve  placed  thee  on  its  throne,  love, 
And  day  and  night,  forever  bright, 
There  you  shall  reign,  my  own  love ! 

iii. 

’Mid  Darra’s  wood  a castle  tall 

Stands  wrecked  witli  age,  and  hoary; 

A white  rose  tree  hangs  from  its  wall 
With  blooms  of  star-like  glory; 

Thy  fair  brow  hath  that  rose’s  hue, 

Kind  Nature’s  own  adorning : 

Thy  heart  is  stainless  as  the  dew 
That  gems  its  leaves  at  morning : 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


At  morning,  at  morning, 

When  dew  that  flower’s  adorning, 
When  out  I rove  through  Darra’s  grove, 
To  think  on  thee  at  morning. 

IV. 

O,  still  may  wane  the  summer  moon, 

The  gay  flowers  follow  after ; 

The  merry  birds  may  hush  their  tune, 

And  glad  streams  cease  their  laughter; 

The  leaves  may  wither  on  the  tree, 

All  things  grow  cold  and  drear,  love, 

But  that  sweet  bower  I’ve  built  to  thee 
Shall  ever  bloom,  my  dear  love ! 

My  dear  love,  my  dear  love, 

You’ll  reign  without  a peer,  love, 

That  bower  within,  the  glorious  queen 
Of  my  fond  heart,  my  dear  love ! 


I BUILT  ME  A BOWER. 

Air— “ Gouan  gal  ban,” 


I. 

I built  me  a bower  in  life’s  greenwood, 

A palace  of  blooms  for  my  soul, 

And  there  on  the  maids  all  unseen,  would 
I dream  ’neath  love’s  blissful  control, 
Till  I set  up  the  image  of  Alice 

Supreme  on  my  heart’s  burning  throne ; 
Then  long  in  my  flower-woven  palace 
I bowed  to  that  image  alone. 

ii. 

O,  fair  was  my  bird  of  the  mountains, 

O,  sweet  as  the  thorn’s  scented  spray, 

O,  pure  as  the  light  of  the  fountains 

That  dance  down  the  green  hills  in  May. 
A chapter  of  joy-woven  story, 

A voyage  o’er  a bright  fairy  sea, 

A May-tide  of  bloom  and  of  glory 

Were  the  days  of  our  love-time  to  me. 

21 


322  SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 

III. 

But  the  chapter  oft  ends  all  in  sorrow, 

The  voyage  hath  its  tempests  and  gloom, 

And  the  May-tide,  though  bright  be  each  morrow, 
Must  pass,  like  our  lives,  to  the  tomb. 

O,  the  dreams  of  my  love-time  are  humbled, 

The  blooms  from  my  green  bower  are  tied, 

My  idol  lies  shattered  and  crumbled, 

My  Alice,  my  sweet  flower,  is  dead ! 


FAIR  MAIDENS’  BEAUTY  WILL  SOON  FADE 
AWAY. 

Air  — “ My  Love  she  was  born  in  the  North  Countrie.” 

I. 

My  love  she  was  born  in  the  North  countrie, 

Where  Antrim’s  wild  highlands  look  over  the  sea ; 

My  love  is  as  fair  as  the  soft  smiling  May ; 

But  fair  maidens’  beauty  will  soon  fade  away. 


ii. 

My  love  is  as  pure  as  the  bright,  blessed  well 
That  springs  all  so  lonely  in  Gartan’s  green  dell; 

My  love  she  is  graceful,  and  tender,  and  gay ; 

But  fair  maidens’  beauty  will  soon  fade  away. 

hi. 

My  love  is  as  sweet  as  the  cinnamon  tree ; 

As  the  bark  to  its  bough  cleaves  she  firm  unto  me; 
Its  green  leaves  will  wither  and  its  roots  will  decay, 
So  fair  maidens’  beauty  will  soon  fade  away. 


IV. 

But  love,  though  the  green  leaf  may  wither  and  fall, 
Though  the  bright  eye  be  dimmed,  and  the  sweet  smile, 
and  all; 

O,  love  has  a life  that  shall  never  decay, 

Though  fair  maidens’  beauty  will  soon  fade  away. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


323 


THE  WATERFALL. 

i. 

Where  the  moss-bronzed  oaks  are  towering 
’Tween  the  rude  rocks’  hoary  wall, 

Into  a chasm  with  sudden  spasm 
Rusheth  the  waterfall! 

Breaking  its  prison  thrall, 

Bursting  its  rocky  bar, 

Its  voice  rolls  loud  from  the  bright  spray  cloud, 
Over  the  hills  afar ! 

ii. 

All  through  the  flame-browed  summer 
’Twas  but  a tiny  stream  — 

Brown  autumn  gave  the  swelling  wave, 

And  the  fierce  and  fiery  gleam. 

O wanderer,  you  would  deem 
That  a bright-eyed  monster  there 
Rushed  out  on  thee  with  a roar  of  glee, 

Mad  from  his  forest  lair ! 

hi. 

It  springeth  far  in  the  hill-tops, 

That  torrent  wild  and  rude, 

And  rolls  along,  with  its  ancient  song, 

Through  the  deep  solitude ; 

Then  o’er  the  sedgy  wood, 

Down  from  the  torn  clift, 

With  a sudden  sweep  it  taketh  its  leap 
Into  that  cavern ed  rift ! 


IV. 

It  boils,  and  writhes,  and  hisses 
As  it  leapeth  down  amain, 

And  its  quivering  roar  shakes  the  valleys  hoar 
Like  a Titan’s  yell  of  pain  ! 

Then  darting  on  again 
Swiftly  its  wild  waves  go, 

Winding  away  in  their  azure  play, 

Through  the  widening  vales  below ! 


824 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


THE  CAILIN  RUE. 

Air  — “An  Cailin  Ruadli.” 


I. 

When  first  I sought  her  by  Cashin’s  water, 

Rond  love  I brought  her,  fond  love  I told ; 

At  day’s  declining  I found  her  twining 

Her  bright  locks,  shining  like  red,  red  gold. 

She  raised  her  eyes  then  in  sweet  surprise  then  — 

Ah  ! how  unwise  then  such  eyes  to  view ! 

Ror  free  they  found  me,  but  fast  they  bound  me, 

Love’s  chain  around  me  for  my  Cailin  Rue. 

ii. 

Rair  flowers  were  blooming,  the  meads  illuming, 

All  fast  assuming  rich  summer’s  pride, 

And  we  were  roving,  truth’s  rapture  proving, 

Ah ! fondly  loving,  by  Cashin’s  side. 

O,  love  may  wander,  but  ne’er  could  sunder 
Our  hearts,  that  fonder  each  moment  grew, 

Till  friends  delighted  such  love  requited, 

And  my  hand  was  plighted  to  my  Cailin  Rue. 

hi. 

Ere  May’s  bright  weather,  o’er  hill  and  heather, 

Sweet  tuned  together  rang  our  bridal  bells ; 

But  at  May’s  dying,  on  fate  relying, 

Rate  left  us  sighing  by  Cashin’s  dells. 

O,  sadly  perished  the  bliss  we  cherished ! 

But  far  lands  flourished  o’er  the  ocean  blue ; 

So  as  June  came  burning  I left  Erin  mourning, 

No  more  returning,  with  my  Cailin  Rue. 

IY. 

Our  ship  went  sailing  with  course  unfailing, 

But  black  clouds  trailing  lowered  o’er  the  main, 

And  its  wild  dirge  singing,  came  the  storm  out  springing, 
That  good  ship  flinging  back,  back  again ! 

A sharp  rock  under  tore  her  planks  asunder, 

While  the  sea  in  thunder  swallowed  wreck  and  crew ! 

One  dark  wave  bore  me  wjiere  the  coast  towered  o’er  me, 
But  dead  before  me  lay  my  Cailin  Rue ! 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


325 


THE  GREEN  RIBBON. 

Air  — “ The  Banks  of  Banna.” 


I met  my  love  in  the  woodland  screen 
With  fond  and  sweet  caresses ; 

I gave  my  love  a ribbon  green 
To  bind  her  yellow  tresses  ; 

She  loosed  each  long  lock’s  shining  fold 
O’er  her  neck  of  snowy  whiteness, 

And  she  bound  the  green  with  the  yellow  gold, 
In  braids  of  glossy  brightness. 

ii. 

It  was  beside  a murmuring  rill 

That  through  the  woods  descended, 

And  over  peaceful  vale  and  hill 
The  sun  shone  calm  and  splendid ; 

O,  often  ’mid  those  leafy  bowers 
In  sweet  blooms  I arrayed  her ; 

But  lovelier  far  than  summer  flowers 
That  bright  green  ribbon  made  her. 

hi. 

May  summer  deck  that  lovely  wood 
With  shining  flowers  the  fairest, 

And  paint  the  rocks  and  light  the  flood 
With  rainbow  hues  the  rarest; 

And  still  through  every  changing  scene 
May  our  fond  love  keep  glowing, 

While  the  leaves  shine  as  that  ribbon  green, 

And  the  wild  rill’s  tide  is  flowing. 


326 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


IRELAND’S  FREEDOM;  OR,  THE  DROP  OF 
BLOOD. 


i. 

In  Titan  days  of  strength  and  youth, 

With  burning  heart  he  spoke  the  truth, 

And  woke  the  People  from  their  sleep 
With  words  of  thunder,  loud  and  deep! 

But,  woe  to  us  ! when  age  came  on, 

When  strength  of  frame  and  soul  was  gone, 
When  tighter  grew  the  tyrant’s  yoke, 

The  slavish,  cruel  words  he  spoke,  — 

That  Ireland’s  freedom  is  not  good 
If  purchased  by  one  drop  of  blood ! 


n. 

Our  hopes  were  bright ; the  dawning  sun 
Of  Freedom  smiled  our  green  hills  on ; 
With  hearts  elate  we  looked  to  him,  — 
He  spoke,  and  made  our  morning  dim. 
Prepared  were  we  to  do  the  best 
That  men  could  do  at  his  behest; 

But  God  forgive  him  in  his  grave 
Who  spoke  the  doctrine  of  the  slave,  — 
That  Ireland’s  freedom  is  not  good 
If  purchased  by  one  drop  of  blood ! 

in. 

What  said  the  Prophets  old,  inspired 
Of  God,  with  freedom’s  sunlight  fired? 
Against  each  foreign  tyrant  horde 
They  preached  the  doctrine  of  the  sword. 
And  if  in  earth’s  primeval  youth 
The  God-inspired  outspoke  the  truth, 
Shall  we,  the  noble  Irish  race, 

With  the  great  Lie  our  souls  debase, 

That  Ireland’s  freedom  is  not  good 
If  purchased  by  one  drop  of  blood  ? 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


327 


IV. 

What  did  the  Pagan  old,  untaught? 

With  blood  his  country’s  weal  he  bought. 
What  did  the  noble  Winkelried? 

With  his  own  blood  his  land  he  freed. 

In  every  region,  old  and  young, 

Where  Truth  eternal  found  a tongue, 
Martyrs  a hundred  fold  laid  down 
Their  lives  to  purchase  Freedom’s  crown. 
And  Ireland’s  freedom  is  not  good 
If  purchased  by  one  drop  of  blood ! 


y. 

In  other  days,  when  to  the  sheen 
Our  sires  unfurled  their  flag  of  green, 
With  England’s  power  like  men  to  cope, 
Then  what  said  cardinal  and  Pope  ? 

Did  they  the  doctrine  false  uphold? 
They  gave  to  Ireland  men  and  gold, 

And  blessed  and  bade  her  soldiers  free 
Fight  unto  death  for  liberty  ! 

And  now  our  freedom  is  not  good 
If  purchased  by  one  drop  of  blood ! 


VI. 

Pace  that  spread’st  from  land  to  land, 
For  labor’s  field  the  stalwart  hand, 
For  council  sage  and  battle  plain, 

The  ready  tongue  and  fiery  brain,  — 
Pace  that  wadest  seas  of  gore 
For  freedom  of  each  foreign  shore, 
Will  you  perpetuate  the  curse? 

Will  you  the  damning  Lie  indorse 
That  Ireland’s  freedom  is  not  good 
If  purchased  by  one  drop  of  blood? 

VII. 

Ah,  God  forbid ! Forbid  it  they 
Who  slumber  in  Thermopylae ; 

And  those  forbid,  the  martyred  brave 
Who  died  our  own  dear  land  to  save, 
On  stricken  field  and  ’leaguered  wall, 
From  sad  Kinsale  to  Donegal ; 


328 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


And  God  forgive  him,  too,  who  first 
With  the  false  creed  our  people  cursed,  — 
That  Ireland’s  freedom  is  not  good 
If  purchased  by  one  drop  of  blood ! 


THE  GROVES  OF  THE  POOL;  OR,  THE  IRISH 
ROVER. 


You  may  like  Dodge’s  Glen,  as  a poet, 

To  sit  in  the  green,  shady  grove, 

And  if  you  set  out  upon  pleasure, 

May  sport  it  all  day  in  the  Cove ; 

But  if  you  are  bent  on  rebellion, 

And  to  learn  in  a good  rebel  school, 

Just  go  courting  a nice  little  sweetheart 
In  the  jolly  old  Groves  of  the  Pool! 

And  I am  a bold  Irish  hero, 

Who  love  the  fair  maids  as  I roam, 
Who  hate  all  oppressors,  from  Nero 
To  the  tyrants  who  lord  it  at  home ! 


ii. 

’Tis  there  you  will  see  the  fair  maidens 

Each  bright  morning  bleaching  the  clothes, 
With  their  white  feet  agleam  in  the  water, 
And  a blush  on  their  cheeks  like  the  rose ; 
With  a flash  in  their  eyes  independent 
That  would  brand  you  a coward  and  fool, 
If  you  feared  to  wear  Green  for  your  color 
In  the  jolly  old  Groves  of  the  Pool! 
Chorus. 


hi. 

I danced  in  the  Claddagh  of  Galway, 
For  frolics  in  Meath  bore  the  bell ; 

For  the  smiles  of  a gay  little  sweetheart 
I fought  in  the  town  of  Clonmel ; 

An  heiress  I courted  in  Mallow, 

A traitor  I shot  in  Rathcoole,  — 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS.  329 

But  I’ve  gone  through  more  games  in  one  morning, 

In  the  jolly  old  Groves  of  the  Pool ! 

Chorus. 


IV. 

Up  spoke  Roisin  Duv,  my  young  sweetheart, 
With  a look  between  earnest  and  jest, 
“Who’ll  win  me  must  handle  a sabre, 

And  fight  for  the  land  we  love  best ; 

Must  stand  in  the  red  gap  of  danger, 

A soldier  collected  and  cool  — 

That’s  the  man  for  my  love  and  devotion 
In  the  jolly  old  Groves  of  the  Pool!  ” 
Chorus. 


v. 

O,  all  you  poor  cowards  and  dastards, 

Prom  the  fair  maids  of  Cork  keep  away ; 

Beware  ! If  you  make  their  acquaintance, 

You’ll  be  all  hanged  for  rebels  next  day. 

With  their  talk,  and  their  tears,  and  their  laughter, 
They’ll  put  you  ’neath  petticoat  rule, 

And  they’ll  make  you  mount  Green  for  your  color 
In  the  jolly  old  Groves  of  the  Pool! 

Chorus. 


VI. 

While  the  Lee  winds  in  glory  and  splendor 
By  wildwoods,  and  castles,  and  towers, 
While  the  slopes  of  Glanmire  in  the  water 
Are  mirrored  with  all  their  bright  bowers  — 
Till  Fate,  with  her  wheel  and  her  spindle, 
Winds  up  my  last  thread  on  her  spool, 

I’ll  think  on  my  wild  days  of  raking 
In  the  jolly  old  Groves  of  the  Pool ! 

For  I am  a bold  Irish  hero, 

Who  love  the  fair  maids  as  I roam, 
Who  hate  all  oppressors,  from  Nero 
To  the  tyrants  who  lord  it  at  home ! 


330 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


ANNIE  DE  CLARE. 

Air  — “ The  Merry  Dancers.” 


I. 

The  rill  at  its  fountain,  how  calm  is  its  flowing  l 
The  rill  down  the  mountain  comes  rushing  and  glowing; 
True  love  in  my  breast  like  its  tide’s  ever  growing, 
Since  I saw  the  bright  eyes  of  my  Annie  de  Clare. 


ii. 

O,  blest  be  the  hours  that  I last  saw  them  beaming 
In  her  home  of  the  Crag,  by  the  waterfall’s  streaming : 
How  I scaled  the  wild  rocks  with  the  red  sunset  gleaming, 
Up  into  the  arms  of  my  Annie  de  Clare ! 

hi. 

O,  the  glory  that  lay  o’er  the  green  earth  and  hea  ven ! 

O,  the  sweet  lapse  of  bliss  to  my  fond  bosom  given, 

As  I sat  by  the  stream  on  that  calm  summer  even, 

In  the  love-lighted  smiles  of  my  Annie  de  Clare. 


iv. 

Many  and  bright  were  the  pleasures  that  crowned  me, 
And  dear  the  enchantments  since  boyhood  that  bound  me, 
But  dearer  than  all  were  the  fond  arms  round  me, 

And  the  red,  rosy  lips  of  my  Annie  de  Clare. 


v. 

When  the  ardor  of  love  lights  the  soul  with  its  splendor, 
No  cares  may  annoy  her,  no  sorrows  can  rend  her; 

So  my  soul’s  rapt  in  gladness,  with  visions  all  tender 
Of  glory  and  love  and  my  Annie  de  Clare. 

VI. 

And  glory  may  crown  me,  of  bright  meeds  the  giver, 
But  love  hath  a guerdon  more  blissful  forever,  — 

That  bower  where  we  sat  by  the  wild  Mumhan  river, 
And  the  fond,  twining  arms  of  my  Annie  de  Clare.. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


331 


THE  MARCH  OUT  OF  LIMERICK. 

Air  — “ The  Rapparee’s  March.” 


Comrades  true,  to  dare  and  do, 

O,  they  are  few  who’ve  yet  denied  us ; 

We’ll  not  say  they  could  betray, 

For  many  a day  they’ve  fought  beside  us ; 
By  hill  and  glade,  in  fight  and  raid, 

With  vengeful  blade  we  smote  the  foeman, 
And  now  till  we  find  Ireland  free, 

Our  banner-tree  shall  droop  to  no  man. 

ii. 

Alas,  for  strife ! child,  parent,  wife, 

More  dear  than  life,  we  leave  behind  us ; 
They  weep  full  sore,  but  on  this  shore 
O,  never  more  in  joy  they’ll  find  us  : 

More  blest  the  brave  in  bloody  grave, 

By  Boyne’s  red  wave,  or  Aughrim  sleeping, 
Than  we  who  hear  our  children  dear, 

And  fond  friends  near  thus  wildly  weeping ! 

hi. 

Sarsfield  stands  before  our  bands, 

For  foreign  lands  his  words  prepare  us ; 

By  Thomond  Gate  the  Dutchmen  wait, 

Their  flag  elate,  but  to  insnare  us  ; 

In  serried  mass  our  bright  files  pass, 

With  steel  cuirass  and  helmet  gleaming, 
Our  brave  choice  said  by  onward  tread, 

And  green  flag  spread  above  us  streaming. 


IV. 

Yon  mournful  train  they  weep  in  vain, 
Black  woe  and  pain  their  steps  attending; 
And  think  of  all  who  met  their  fall 

Brave  Limerick’s  wall  so  long  defending ; 


832 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


When  we  look  back  on  war’s  grim  wrack. 
On  turret  black  and  breach  all  gory, 

By  hearthstone  bare  and  breach  we  swear, 
Revenge  to  share,  come  grief  or  glory ! 

y. 

Farewell,  ye  Dead,  who  nobly  bled ! 

Your  blood  was  shed  for  Ireland’s  honor; 
To  change  her  doom,  to  chase  the  gloom, 
Whose  shadows  loom  so  dark  upon  her. 
And  ye,  farewell,  whose  wild  cries  swell 
A mournful  knell,  at  home  to  bind  us ; 
Your  hearts  full  sore,  on  tli’  Irish  shore 
Forevermore  we  leave  behind  us  ! 


THE  FAIR  MAID’S  LAMENT. 

Air — “ Each  night  when  I slumber.” 


I. 

Of  all  the  glens  in  Ireland,  Dundara’s  glen  for  me ; 

There  first  I met  my  sweetheart,  and  loved  him  constantly ; 
Yet  now  within  Dundara  each  day  I grieve  and  pine, 

For  I have  nought  to  comfort  this  lonely  heart  of  mine ! 

ii. 

Each  night  when  I slumber,  with  dreams  I’m  oppressed ; 
Still  thinking  of  my  true  love  deprives  me  of  my  rest ; 

He’s  sailing  now  for  Holland,  to  face  his  enemy  — 

Bright  angels  be  his  guard,  and  from  danger  set  him  free ! 

hi. 

I wish  it  were  my  fortune  along  with  him  to  be, 

To  spend  some  pleasant  hours  in  his  sweet  company, 

When  in  rude  war’s  alarms  with  courage  I’d  behave, 

To  give  my  love  to  understand  that  I’m  no  coward  slave ! 

IV. 

My  father  and  my  mother  are  angry  with  me, 

And  often  do  upbraid  me,  all  for  my  constancy; 

But  let  them  all  say  what  they  will,  still  loyal  I’ll  remain, 
Until  my  darling  true  love  returns  home  again. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


383 


V. 

I might  have  got  an  earl,  or  young  man  of  noble  birth, 
But  I prefer  my  true  love  above  all  men  on  earth ; 

For  what  care  I for  noble  birth,  or  for  the  golden  store, 
When  I could  live  on  desert  hills  with  him  whom  I adore? 


YI. 

Each  night  when  I slumber,  with  dreams  I’m  oppressed ; 
Still  thinking  of  my  true  love  deprives  me  of  my  rest; 
Beneath  the  lonely  willow  each  day  I’ll  sigh  and  mourn, 
For  in  grief  I mean  to  languish  till  my  true  love’s  return ! 


FAINGE  AN  LAE.* 

Air  — “ Faingc  an  lae.” 


The  sun,  in  his  splendor  and  glory, 
Sets  over  the  shining  main, 

And  island  and  precipice  hoary 
Are  swimming  in  gold  again : 

Ah ! many  a battle-field  gory 
He  lights  by  that  ocean’s  spray, 

The  scenes  of  each  tragical  story 
Which  darkened  our  Fainge  an  lae ! 


ii. 

The  hill-tops  of  Clare  are  defining 
Their  shapes  in  the  golden  glow ; 

The  mountains  of  Kerry  are  shining 
Sublime  on  the  plains  below ; 

They  look  on  a master  still  twining 
The  gyves  of  our  woe  each  day ; 

They  look  on  a race  ever  pining, 

And  all  for  our  Fainge  an  lae ! 

hi. 

They  mind  me,  so  riven  and  valleyed, 

Of  bownocht  f and  rapparee, 

* The  Ring  of  the  Morning,  or  the  Dawning ; i.  e„  the  dawning  of  the 
morning  of  Freedom, 
t A foot- soldier. 


334 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


Who  oft  round  their  hoar  summits  rallied, 

To  set  their  green  country  free. 

O,  these  were  the  men  that  ne’er  dallied, 
When  once  set  in  war’s  array, 

But  fierce  on  the  scared  foeman  sallied, 

And  all  for  their  Fainge  an  lae ! 

IV. 

Fair  Freedom  soon,  soon  must  awaken, 

With  her  form  of  sun-bright  mould; 

Then  let  her  not  wander  forsaken, 

But  armed,  as  in  days  of  old. 

With  her  green  flags  and  banners  outshaken, 
O,  what  could  our  triumph  stay? 

Our  thirst  for  the  right  would  be  slaken ; 
We’d  soon  have  our  Fainge  an  lae ! 

v. 

When  the  power  of  the  tyrant  is  riven, 

And  swordless  his  blood-stained  hand, 

When  the  black  clouds  from  Erin  are  driven, 
O,  where  is  the  brighter  land? 

And  when  shall  that  grand  hour  be  given 
That  sets  us  on  Freedom’s  way  ? 

When,  like  the  great  Dead,  we  have  striven, 
And  all  for  our  Fainge  an  lae ! 


DONALL  NA  GREINE.* 

Air  — 1 4 Domnall  na  Greine.” 


i. 

Where  rolls  the  tide  of  the  wandering  Mulla, 
Brilliantly  gleaming,  gushing  and  gleaming, 

Young  Donall  lay  in  a sunny  hollow, 

Lazily  dreaming,  thinking  and  dreaming ; 

And  thus  he  lay  all  that  sweet  summer  idle, 

Fleeing  from  labor,  fleeing  from  labor, 

When  his  left  hand  should  hold  the  skian  or  the  bridle, 
And  his  right  the  steel  sabre,  the  keen-cutting  sabre ; 

* Donall  of  the  sunshine;  i.  e„  Donall  the  Lazy. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


335 


And  hurrah  for  ease  and  for  love’s  bright  story, 
Sang  Donall  na  Greine,  tall  Donall  na  Greine ; 
For  both  he  dreamed  of,  not  war  and  glory, 
Donall  na  Greine,  tall  Donall  na  Greine ! 


ii. 

There  built  he  many  an  airy  castle, 

Towering  and  gleaming,  towering  and  gleaming, 

And  peopled  their  halls  with  fair  maid  and  vassal, 

In  his  wild  dreaming,  in  his  wild  dreaming ; 

And  ne’er  one  cause  could  he  still  discover 

Why  his  ease  should  be  broken,  his  sweet  ease  broken, 

Till  his  love  proved  false,  and  his  dreams  were  over, 

And  he  a rover  — to  sorrow  awoken  ! 

Then  hurrah,  hurrah  for  a life  of  labor, 

Sang  Donall  na  Greine,  tall  Donall  na  Greine! 

The  steed,  the  corselet,  and  flashing  sabre, 

For  Donall  na  Greine,  bold  Donall  na  Greine ! 

hi. 

His  steed’s  black  mane  to  the  winds  is  streaming, 

By  valley  and  highland,  by  moorland  and  highland ; 

You’d  stray  from  Bengore  with  the  white  spray  gleaming, 
To  Cleir’s  stormy  island,  to  Cleir’s  stormy  island, 

Ere  a better  or  doughtier  man  could  meet  you 
Than  Donall  na  Greine,  tall  Donall  na  Greine ! 

Or  a fiercer,  haughtier  smile  could  greet  you  — 

Tall  Donall  na  Greine,  bold  Donall  na  Greine ! 

And  hurrah,  hurrah  for  a life  of  labor, 

Sang  Donall  na  Greine,  bold  Donall  na  Greine ! 

The  rushing  charge  and  the  flashing  sabre 

For  Donall  na  Greine,  bold  Donall  na  Greine ! 

IV. 

Soon  the  rapparees  all,  his  brave  brothers  were  sworn 
Through  hardship  and  danger,  through  hardship  and 
danger ; 

O’Hogan  to  battle  was  never  borne 

So  fleet  on  the  stranger,  the  false-hearted  stranger  — 

O,  to  see  him  down  on  the  foeman  dashing! 

How  fearless  he  bore  him,  how  reckless  he  bore  him ! 

With  his  sabre  keen  in  his  strong  hand  flashing, 

Through  the  Sassenaglis  crashing  — his  green  flag  o’er 
him. 


336 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


And  hurrah,  hurrah  for  a life  of  labor ! 

Sang  Donall  na  Greine,  bold  Donall  na  Greine; 
The  rushing  charge  and  the  shining  sabre 

For  Donall  na  Greine,  bold  Donall  na  Greine ! 

y. 

Once  again  he  loved,  by  the  Shannon  water, 

A maiden  unchanging,  with  fond  heart  unchanging, 
And  after  many  a field  of  slaughter, 

Away  they  went  ranging,  to  foreign  lands  ranging; 
At  Fontenoy  his  brave  generals  paid  him, 

Tall  Donall  na  Greine,  bold  Donall  na  Greine! 

A captain  fine  on  that  field  they  made  him, 

For  fear  never  swayed  him,  bold  Donall  na  Greine ! 
Then  hurrah  for  love  and  a life  of  labor ! 

Sang  Donall  na  Greine,  bold  Donall  na  Greine ! 
Unchanging  love  and  a conquering  sabre 

For  Donall  na  Greine,  bold  Donall  na  Greine ! 


THE  HILLS  OF  SWEET  TIPPERARY. 

Air  — “ The  Orange  Rogue.” 


I. 

O,  Mary  dear,  ’tis  long  ago 
Since  hand  in  hand  together 
We  sat  in  pleasant  Rossaroe, 

Amidst  the  blooming  heather; 

Your  eyes  were  like  the  lustre  shed 
By  heaven  so  blue  and  airy, 

Your  cheeks  were  like  the  roses  red 
'Mid  green  hills  of  Tipperary. 

O,  the  hills,  the  hills  so  green, 

The  hills  so  high  and  airy, 

May  heaven  shine  o’er  them  ever  sheen, 
The  hills  of  sweet  Tipperary. 

ii. 

We  sat  while  evening’s  light  illumed 
Comailthe’s  stately  mountain,* 


* Keeper  Hill. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


337 


Where  heather  bells  and  gorse  flowers  bloomed 
Round  old  St.  Brendan’s  fountain  ; 

The  redbreast’s  song,  the  thrush’s  lay, 

Like  strains  from  haunts  of  faery, 

Our  vespers  for  the  closing  day 
’Mid  green  hills  of  Tipperary. 

O,  the  hills,  &c. 

m. 

The  bubbling  well,  the  ruined  cairn, 

Where  slept  some  warrior  olden, 

The  foxglove,  heath,  and  waving  fern, 

And  gorse  flowers  gay  and  golden : 

The  sunlit  tree,  with  shattered  arm, 

That  eve,  true  love  unchary 
Cast  o’er  them  all  some  magic  charm, 

’Mid  green  hills  of  Tipperary, 

O,  the  hills,  &c. 


IV. 

What  vows  in  that  sweet  spot  we  made 
Of  true  love,  fond  and  tender, 

Nor  dreamed  that  joy  could  falsely  fade, 

Like  that  gay  sunset’s  splendor; 

Nor  thought  death’s  gloom  and  misery 
Our  happiness  could  vary, 

So  blindly  rapt  in  love  were  we, 

’Mid  green  hills  of  Tipperary. 

O,  the  hills,  &c. 

v. 

What  hopes  were  doomed,  what  fortunes  fell, 
Since  you  and  I together 
Sat  by  St.  Brendan’s  sunlit  well, 

Amidst  the  blooming  heather  ! 

I wander  far  from  Rossaroe, 

No  longer  blithe  and  airy, 

And  on  your  grave  the  shamrocks  grow, 

’Mid  green  hills  of  Tipperary. 

O,  the  hills,  the  hills  so  green, 

The  hills  so  high  and  airy, 

May  heaven  shine  o’er  them  ever  sheen, 
The  hills  of  sweet  Tipperary. 


22 


338 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


THE  COMING  BRIDAL. 

Air  — “ B’fearr  liomsa  ainnir  gan  guna.” 


Mr  home  stands  by  Puncheon's  bright  river, 
Where  the  broom  blossoms  shine  in  the  spring, 
Where  the  green  beeches  murmur  and  quiver, 

And  the  birds  ’mid  their  cool  branches  sing ; 

And  there,  where  the  sky  gleams  so  blue  in 
The  stream  as  it  winds  through  the  dells, 

Adown  by  the  old  castle  ruin, 

My  love  in  her  white  cottage  dwells. 

ii. 

The  black  whortle  shines  ’mid  the  heather, 

Where  the  wild  deer  in  brown  autumn  rove, 

And  dark  is  the  strong  raven’s  feather, 

But  darker  the  locks  of  my  love. 

Two  trees  by  the  Fort  of  the  Fairy, 

A red  rose  and  white  sweetly  grow; 

O,  the  lips  and  the  brow  of  my  Mary 
Outshine  their  pure  crimson  and  snow. 

hi. 

No  flocks  hath  she  down  by  the  island, 

No  red  gold  her  coffers  illume, 

No  herds  over  brown  moor  or  highland, 

No  meads  where  the  sweet  flowers  may  bloom: 
The  old  dame  hath  herds  by  the  wildwood ; 

She’d  give  me  herds,  green  meads,  and  gold, 

But  the  young  heart  that  loved  me  since  childhood 
Shall  find  me  in  manhood  unsold. 

IV. 

Next  Sunday  the  fires  will  be  blazing 

For  the  Baal-feast  o’er  mountain  and  plain ; 

That  morn  village  crowds  will  be  gazing 
With  joy  on  our  gay  bridal  train; 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


339 


Could  love  half  so  blest  ever  falter, 

When  placed  'mid  the  throng  side  by  side, 
When  there,  at  the  old  chapel  altar, 

The  good  priest  will  make  her  my  bride  ? 


THE  WIND  THAT  SHAKES  THE  BARLEY. 

Air  — “ The  Old  Love  and  the  New  Love.” 


I. 

I sat  within  the  valley  green, 

I sat  me  with  my  true  love, 

My  sad  heart  strove  the  two  between, 

The  old  love  and  the  new  love,  — 

The  old  for  her,  the  new  that  made 
Me  think  on  Ireland  dearly, 

While  soft  the  wind  blew  down  the  glade, 
And  shook  the  golden  barley. 

ii. 

’Twas  hard  the  woful  words  to  frame, 

To  break  the  ties  that  bound  us,  — 
’Twas  harder  still  to  bear  the  shame 
Of  foreign  chains  around  us ; 

And  so  I said,  “ The  mountain  glen 
I’ll  seek  next  morning  early, 

And  join  the  brave  United  men  ! ” 

While  soft  winds  shook  the  barley. 

hi. 

While  sad  I kissed  away  her  tears, 

My  fond  arms  round  her  flinging, 

The  foeman’s  shot  burst  on  our  ears, 
From  out  the  wildwood  ringing. 

The  bullet  pierced  my  true  love’s  side, 

In  life’s  young  spring  so  early, 

And  on  my  breast  in  blood  she  died, 

While  soft  winds  shook  the  barley ! 


340 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


IV. 

I bore  her  to  the  wildwood  screen, 

And  many  a summer  blossom 
I placed,  with  branches  thick  and  green, 
Above  her  gore-stained  bosom  : 

I wept,  and  kissed  her  pale,  pale  cheek, 
Then  rushed  o’er  vale  and  far  lea, 

My  vengeance  on  the  foe  to  wreak, 

While  soft  winds  shook  the  barley ! 

v. 

And  blood  for  blood,  without  remorse, 
I’ve  ta’en  at  Oulart  Hollow,* 

I’ve  placed  my  true  love’s  clay-cold  corse 
Where  I full  soon  will  follow; 

And  round  her  grave  I wander  drear, 
Noon,  night,  and  morning  early, 

With  breaking  heart,  whene’er  I hear 
The  wind  that  shakes  the  barley ! 


FANNY  CLAIR. 

Air  — “ Mor  China.” 


I. 

Queenly  is  thy  mien  and  air, 

Jewels  sparkle  in  thy  hair, 

And  those  ringlets  twining, 

And  thy  dark  eyes  shining, 

Set  my  fond  heart  pining, 

Fanny  Clair. 

ii. 

Grace  dwells  in  thy  features  fair, 

Pride  of  birth  sits  haughty  there, 

Yet  in  thy  heart’s  glowing, 

Love  — on  me  bestowing 
Fond  hopes  brighter  glowing, 

Fanny  Clair. 

* The  quarry  on  Oulart  Hill,  where  the  infamous  North  Cork  militia- 
men were  cut  to  pieces  by  the  people. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


341 


III. 

Never  shall  my  heart  despair 
While  that  smile  thy  sweet  lips  wear ; 
In  it  rests  a token 
That  thy  love’s  awoken, 

Though  it  burns  unspoken, 
Fanny  Clair. 


IV. 

Then  the  life  that  else  was  bare 
Shall  find  glory,  spite  of  care, 
For  thy  sake  shall  never 
Cease  each  good  endeavor, 
Till  we’re  joined  forever, 
Fanny  Clair  l 


WILLY  BRAND. 

Air  — “ Blow  the  Candle  out.” 


1. 

My  love  is  come  of  English  blood, 

And  was  my  father’s  foe ; 

But  now  he’s  all  for  Ireland’s  good, 

As  once  for  Ireland’s  woe ; 

And  now  he’s  leal  and  true  as  steel 
When  war  is  in  the  land ; 

So  aye  through  blame,  and  O,  through  shame, 
I’ll  love  my  Willy  Brand. 


ii. 

M}r  love  he  is  a soldier  free, 

So  stately  and  so  tall, 

With  armor  shining  gloriously, 

And  sword,  and  plume,  and  all; 

With  horseman’s  shoon  and  musquetoon 
He  rides  by  tower  and  strand, 

And  aye  through  blame,  and  O,  through  shame, 
I’ll  love  my  Willy  Brand. 


342  SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 

III. 

My  love  has  drawn  his  gallant  sword 
For  Ireland’s  cause  and  king, 

Black  Cromwell,  with  his  blood-stained  horde 
Of  traitors  back  to  fling ; 

And  may  God  speed  each  man  and  steed 
The  dark  foe  to  withstand, 

While  aye  through  blame,  and  0,  through  shame, 
# I’ll  love  my  Willy  Brand. 


IV. 

Each  day  she  waited  by  the  hill 
Her  Willy  Brand’s  return, 

And  still  the  same,  through  woe  and  ill, 

Her  love  for  him  did  burn  : 

And  back  love  gave  her  soldier  brave 
When  peace  swayed  o’er  the  land ; 

For  aye  through  blame,  and  O,  through  shame, 
She  loved  her  Willy  Brand ! 


THE  LASSES  OF  IRELAND. 
Air—  “ Pilib  a Ceo.” 


i. 

Here’s  to  our  dear  lasses,  wheresoe’er  their  home, 

’Mid  the  ancient  cities,  or  where  wild  streams  foam; 

Ne’er  were  hearts  more  constant,  ne’er  were  eyes  so  bright, 
So  we’ll  pledge  them  fondly  on  this  festive  night. 

Then  to  our  dear  lasses, 

With  their  smiles  divine, 

Drink,  in  sparkling  glasses 
Of  the  rose-red  wine ! 


ii. 

All  the  lovely  maids  that  charmed  our  sires  of  yore, 
Live  and  shine  immortal  in  wild  bardic  lore ; 

Still  the  same  sweet  faces,  still  the  forms  so  fair, 
Bloom  from  Antrim’s  Pillars  to  the  bright  Kenmare. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


843 


Then  to  those  dear  lasses, 

With  their  smiles  divine. 

Drink,  in  sparkling  glasses 
Of  the  rose-red  wine ! 

hi. 

Once  I was  a rover  through  broad  England’s  plains ; 

Through  and  through  I’ve  wandered  Scotland’s  wild  domains : 
There  I found  fair  maidens  in  the  light  of  youth, 

But  no  Irish  fondness,  and  no  Irish  truth. 

So  to  our  own  lasses, 

With  their  smiles  divine. 

Drink,  in  sparkling  glasses 
Of  the  rose-red  wine ! 


IV. 

Denmark’s  dames  are  lovely,  with  their  locks  of  gold ; 
Spanish  forms  are  stately;  France  hath  charms  untold; 
Yet  that  sweet,  bright  beauty  filling  glance  and  smile, 
Dwells  but  with  the  maidens  of  our  own  green  isle. 

So  to  our  own  lasses, 

With  their  smiles  divine, 

Drink,  in  sparkling  glasses 
Of  the  rose-red  wine ! 


v. 

May  they  live  forever,  as  in  th’  olden  time, 

When  brave  warriors  wooed  them,  and  sweet  bards  sublime ; 
May  their  glorious  faces  shine  for  aye  the  same, 

With  the  light  of  beauty  and  love’s  radiant  flame ! 

And  to  our  own  lasses, 

With  their  smiles  divine, 

Drink,  in  sparkling  glasses 
Of  the  rose-red  wine  2 


344  SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


O’SULLIVAN’S  FLIGHT. 

A.  D.  1G03. 


Air  — “ Ca  rouish  anish  an  cailin  vig.” 


I. 

Glengariff’s  shore  could  give  no  more 
The  shelter  strong  we  needed, 

So  away  we  trode  on  our  wintry  road, 

Its  dangers  all  unheeded. 

The  snows  were  deep,  the  paths  were  steep, 
But  worse  than  these  soon  found  us  — 

The  ruffian  swords,  and  the  traitor  hordes 
That  flocked  like  wolves  around  us  ! 

We’ll  shout  hurrah  for  valor’s  sway, 
Each  trembling  coward  scorning, 

For  cleaving  brands,  in  dauntless  hands, 
And  all  for  Freedom’s  morning ! 

ii. 

By  Blarney’s  towers,  Mac  Caurha’s  powers 
Our  good  swords  turned  their  backs  on ; 

And  Mallow’s  flood  we  stained  with  blood 
Of  Barry,  Bupe,  and  Saxon  ! 

By  Gailty’s  hill  around  us  still 
Rushed  many  a fierce  marauder, 

Yet  our  path  we  clave  to  Shannon’s  wave, 
And  all  by  the  good  lamh  laider .* 

W e’ll  shout  hurrah ! &c. 

hi. 

Mac  Eggan’s  wrath  there  barred  our  path, 
But  we  gave  him  warning  earljr 

To  clear  the  way,  or  his  bands  we’d  slay, 
And  we  kept  our  promise  fairly ! 

Each  killed  his  steed  in  that  hour  of  need, 
After  false  Mac  Eggan’s  slaughter, 


* The  Strong  Hand. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS, 


345 


Corachs  * unstaid  of  their  skins  we  made, 

And  crossed  the  Shannon’s  water ! 

Then  shout  hurrah ! &c. 

IV. 

O’Sullivan  was  the  dauntless  man, 

When  the  foe  by  Aughrim  found  us ; 

Black  Malby’s  head  on  the  sward  he  laid, 

And  we  slew  all  around  us ! 

But  O,  how  few  of  our  brave  and  true 
Reached  Ullad’s  f mountains  hoary  ! 

Yet  none  should  weep  for  the  brave  who  sleep 
On  that  path  so  rough  and  gory ! 

But  shout  hurrah  for  valor’s  sway, 

Each  trembling  coward  scorning, 

Eor  cleaving  brands,  in  dauntless  hands, 
And  all  for  Ereedom’s  morning ! 


JOHN’S  OLD  WIFE  OF  TULLYVOE. 

Air  — “ The  Scolding  Wife  of  Tullyvoe.” 


I. 

John’s  old  wife  of  Tullyvoe 
Was  crooked  made,  from  top  to  toe; 
In  elf-locks  wild  her  hair  did  flow, 
John’s  old  wife  of  Tullyvoe ! 


ii. 

She  had  a tongue  would  skin  a flint, 
A temper  with  the  devil  in’t, 

Always  in  a burning  glow, 

John’s  old  wife  of  Tullyvoe ! 


* Cornell , a light  boat.  O’Sullivan  ordered  his  men  to  cut  osiers  by  the 
shore,  and  make  boat  frames  of  wicker  work.  These  frames  they  covered 
with  the  skins  of  their  horses,  and  in  the  corachs  or  boats  thus  formed 
they  crossed  the  Shannon, 
t Ullad,  Ulster. 


346 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


III. 

Her  mouth  was  wide,  her  lips  were  thin, 
With  only  six  black  teeth  within, 

In  a most  uneven  row, 

John’s  old  wife  of  Tullyvoe ! 

IV. 

Her  feet  and  hands,  and  talon  nails, 

And  squinting  eyes  — my  courage  fails 
In  description  here  to  go ; 

John’s  old  wife  of  Tullyvoe ! 


v. 

Her  laughing,  bright-eyed  servant  girls 
She  banged  about,  and  tore  their  curls, 
From  morning’s  light  till  evening’s  glow, 
John’s  old  wife  of  Tullyvoe! 


VI. 

As  from  the  fair  of  Carragrome 
John  himself  came  hearty  * home, 

Burning  gall  did  overflow 
John’s  old  wife  of  Tullyvoe ! 

VII. 

* She  bit  his  ear,  she  tore  his  head, 

She  pulled  his  nose  until  it  bled, 

She  knocked  him  down  with  one  fell  blow, 
John’s  old  wife  of  Tullyvoe ! 

VIII. 

She  flung,  she  flounced  with  devilish  zest, 
She  danced  “ Shane  Gow”  f upon  his  breast, 
With  stamping,  vicious  heel  and  toe, 

John’s  old  wife  of  Tullyvoe ! 

IX. 

If  you  want  more  verse  to  flow, 

More  particulars  to  know, 

You  yourself,  not  I,  may  go 
To  John’s  old  wife  of  Tullyvoe ! 

* Hearty , half-seas-over ; tipsy, 
t A favorite  jig,  or  Moneen . 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


347 


SONG. 

Air  — “ The  Handsome  Face.” 


i. 

A young,  bright  face,  where  all  can  trace 
The  heart’s  pure  thoughts  ever  shining  there ; 
In  dreamland  golden  there’s  nought  beholden, 
Half  so  bewitching,  or  half  so  fair. 


ii. 

Two  bright  eyes  like  the  summer  skies, 

Where  the  soul  laughs  out  in  a living  ray ; 

What  can  lighten  the  heart,  and  brighten 
Its  depths,  when  darkened,  so  well  as  they  ? 

hi. 

Lips  as  red  as  the  light  that’s  shed 
By  the  dew-bright  roses  in  leafy  June, 

With  the  white  teeth’s  splendor,  and  voice  as  tender, 
And  soft,  and  sweet,  as  an  old  love  tune. 


iv. 

O,  my  love,  my  maid  of  the  wildwood  glade 
In  the  western  mountains,  excels  in  all ; 

And  through  all  ranging  and  fortune’s  changing, 
With  those  sweet  charms  keeps  my  heart  in  thrall ! 


THE  STORMY  SEA  SHALL  FLOW  IN. 

Air  “ I wish  I were  an  Earl.” 


i. 

The  stormy  sea  shall  flow  in, 
Our  highland  valleys  through, 
Ere  I,  my  stately  Owen, 

Prove  false  to  love  and  you. 


848 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


My  heart  was  sad  and  lonely, 

Each  weary  night  and  day, 

And  your  kind  accents  only 
Could  chase  my  grief  away. 

ii. 

Eor  O,  my  mother  left  me  — 

Cold,  cold  in  death  she  lies  — 
Ah  ! how  drear  fortune  reft  me 
Of  all  my  heart  could  prize ! 

My  father  far  would  wander 
Unto  some  foreign  zone, 

And  I was  left  to  ponder 
Upon  my  grief  alone ! 

iii. 

Then  came  a sure,  sweet  token 
Such  sorrows  might  not  last, 

The  love  in  joy  unspoken, 

You  spoke  when  joy  had  passed; 
Then  O,  the  sea  shall  flow  in 
Our  highland  valleys  through, 
Ere  I,  my  stately  Owen, 

Prove  false  to  love  and  you ! 


MARGARET. 

Air  — “ She  is  gone.” 


The  woods,  and  the  hills,  and  the  flower-edged  streams, 
Are  brighter  than  they  were  wont  to  be, 

Eor  winter  hath  fled,  and  the  sunny  gleams 
Of  spring-tide  clothe  them  in  radiancy ; 

But  my  Margaret  is  gone,  and  my  golden  dreams 
Are  darkened  and  dead  to  me. 

ii. 

All  things  look  serene  and  bright, 

Crag  and  castle,  and  vale  and  all ; 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


349 


The  young  lambs  play  in  their  fresh  delight, 

And  the  sweet  birds  sing  in  the  forest  tall : 

But  my  Margaret  is  gone,  and  the  shades  of  night 
Dark  down  in  my  bosom  fall. 

hi. 

The  clouds  from  the  mountain  tops  have  rolled, 

And  the  woods  and  the  valleys  are  clad  in  green; 
But  where  is  she  with  the  hair  of  gold, 

And  the  eyes  so  sweetly  blue  and  sheen? 

Ah ! my  Margaret  is  gone,  and  those  dreams  of  old 
Shall  never  come  back,  I ween  I 


I LOVED  A MAID. 

Air  — “ The  Rambling  Sailor.” 


I. 

I loved  a maid  by  Geerait’s  lea, 

And  knew  by  many  a token 
That  love  dwelt  in  her  heart  for  me, 
Though  long  it  lived  unspoken ; 

I loved  her  well,  I loved  her  true, 

But  she  has  crossed  the  ocean  blue ; 

Yet  can  the  links  that  fondly  grew 
Thus  round  our  hearts  be  broken  ? 

ii. 

Ah  ! many  a morn  and  starry  night 
May  sink  down  Time’s  dark  river, 

And  youth  may  fade,  like  all  things  bright, 
But  nought  our  souls  can  sever ; 

Eor  love  shall  live,  the  love  of  yore, 

That  filled  our  hearts  by  Geerait’s  shore, 
Though  angry  oceans  spread  and  roar 
Between  us  still  forever. 

hi. 

There’s  many  a maid  ’neath  Daragh’s  crest 
Whose  fond  love  I might  waken, 


350 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


But  never  from  my  lonely  breast 
Can  thought  of  her  be  taken ; 

I gaze  on  them,  but  constantly 
Think,  think  on  her  beyond  the  sea ; 
Thus  love  and  grief  have  dwelt  with  me, 
And  ne’er  my  heart  forsaken. 


THE  RIGHTFUL  POWER. 


“Let  every  soul  be  subject 
Unto  the  higher  powers.” 

We  bend  our  souls  to  God  alone 
In  these  our  darkest  hours  ; 

For  if  the  Saxon’s  burning  chain 
Was  ever  made  for  us, 

Designed  it  was  in  Satan’s  brain, 

And  forged  in  Erebus  I 

ii. 

“ Let  every  soul  be  subject 
Unto  the  powers  that  be.” 

To  power  designed  by  Lucifer 
We  cannot  bend  the  knee; 

But  preachers,  interested,  vain, 

The  text  interpret  thus, 

And  bid  us  wear  the  demon  chain 
Was  forged  in  Erebus ! 

hi. 

Believe  them  not,  — the  prosperous  Frank, 
He  owns  his  blood-bought  field; 

The  Teuton  gathers  as  his  own 
Whate’er  his  valleys  yield ; 

His  own  the  peasant  counts  the  plain, 

E’en  in  the  land  of  Russ ; 

And  is  our  portion  but  that  chain 
Was  forged  in  Erebus? 


\ 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


351 


IV. 

A brehon  of  our  land  once  said, 

“ Let  each  man  have  his  own.” 

Another,  that  “ a battle-field 
Was  the  best  brehon  known.” 

We’ll  follow  out  their  judgments  plain, 
Though  stern  and  dangerous  ; 

We’ll  have  our  own  — we’ll  break  that  chain 
Was  forged  in  Erebus ! 


v. 

“Let  every  soul  be  subject 
Unto  the  rightful  power.” 

Thus  rendered  we  the  holy  text 
In  many  a trying  hour  : 

A trying  hour  is  come  again,  — 

A mighty  hour  for  us,  — 

We’ll  hurl  the  tyrant  and  his  chain 
Back  into  Erebus ! 


JESSY  BRIEN. 

Air  — “ As  through  the  Woods  I chanced  to  rove.” 


i. 

Jessy  Brien  ! the  livelong  day, 
Down  by  Funcheon’s  river; 

I think  of  her  from  June  to  May, 
Down  by  Funcheon’s  river ; 

I love  her  not  for  golden  dower, 
But  O,  that  she’s  the  fairest  flower, 
In  lowly  cot  or  lordly  bower, 

Down  by  Funcheon’s  river. 


ii. 

Ne’er  were  eyes  so  clear  and  blue, 
Down  by  Funcheon’s  river ; 
Ne’er  was  heart  so  good  and  true, 
Down  by  Funcheon’s  river ; 


852 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


And  her  long  hair  is  so  bright, 

That  it  shines  by  day  and  night, 

Like  a cloud  of  golden  light, 

Down  by  Funcheon’s  river. 

hi. 

Within  the  chapel  on  the  green, 
Down  by  Funcheon’s  river, 

O,  could  you  see  my  bosom’s  queen, 
Down  by  Funcheon’s  river, 
Kneeling  at  the  Sunday  prayer, 

She  looks  so  bright  and  lovely  there, 
You’d  deem  she  was  an  angel  fair, 
Down  by  Funclieon’s  river! 


IV. 

And  I will  love  my  maiden  mild, 

Down  by  Funcheon’s  river, 

While  lasts  the  water’s  song  so  wild, 
Down  by  Funcheon’s  river ; 

And  sweetly  as  that  fairy  song, 

While  blest  with  love  so  true  and  strong, 
Our  lives  in  joy  shall  glide  along, 

Down  by  Funcheon’s  river. 


THE  FORSAKEN. 

Air  — “ The  Gaddhe  Graine.” 


i. 

The  flowers  are  blooming  by  stream  and  fountain. 
The  wild  birds  sing  with  a joyous  tone, 

And  gladness  gushes  o’er  vale  and  mountain, 

But  I am  left  to  my  grief  alone  — 

To  wail  alone  in  love’s  deep  devotion, 

For  young  Dunlevy  of  the  raven  hair 
Has  left  his  mountains  and  crossed  the  ocean, 

To  fight  for  France  and  for  glory  there. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


853 


II. 

They  tell  me  that  his  love  is  burning 
For  me  as  fond  as  e’er  it  has  been ; 

But  when,  ah ! when  comes  his  sweet  returning 
To  Erin’s  hills  and  his  dark  Eileen? 

They  tell  me  one  sweet,  pleasant  story,  — 

My  young  Dunlevy’s  brave  pride  and  joy, 

When  he  had  won  the  bright  meed  of  glory, 

A captain’s  sabre  at  Fontenoy ! 

hi. 

The  foreign  maidens  could  ne’er  have  bound  him 
In  love’s  bright  fetters,  though  fair  they  be ; 

Yet  ah!  he  comes  not,  though  fame  has  found  him, 
And  well  I love  him,  and  he  loves  me. 

Alas ! their  vengeance  is  not  half  taken 
Upon  the  Saxon  for  his  tyrannie, 

And  O,  how  long  shall  I sit  forsaken, 

To  wail  alone  by  the  murmuring  sea? 


JOHNNY’S  RETURN. 

Air  — “ In  comes  a Croppy.” 


As  Johnny  came  full  merrily 
By  Mona’s  ancient  tower, 

He  saw  his  true  love  drearily 
Sit  in  the  wild  ash  bower; 

He  spoke  to  her  full  cheerily, 

But  aye  she  made  her  moan : 
u O,  I’m  left  to  weep  all  drearily 
My  misery  alone, 

For  he  whose  words  fell  merrily 
On  my  poor  heart  is  flown.” 


ii. 

“ When  winter  blasts  were  roaring  wild, 
My  love  left  me  to  weep ; 

And  ere  the  larks  were  soaring  wild, 
He’d  crossed  the  stormy  deep.” 

23 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


Then  Johnny  spoke  full  merrily, 

But  aye  she  made  her  moan : 

“ O,  I’m  left  to  weep  all  drearily 
My  misery  alone, 

For  he  whose  words  fell  cheerily 
On  my  poor  heart  is  flown.” 

in. 

O,  dead  her  young  heart’s  gladness  then, 
For  two  long,  weary  years, 

And  wild  she  wailed  her  sadness  then, 
And  fast  fell  down  her  tears ; 

Yet  Johnny  spoke  full  merrily, 

But  aye  she  made  her  moan : 

“ O,  I’m  left  to  weep  all  drearily 
My  misery  alone, 

For  he  whose  words  fell  cheerily 
On  my  poor  heart  is  flown.” 


IV. 

He’d  come  disguised  full  drearily 
On  his  returning  day ; 

With  laugh  and  fond  word  cheerily, 

He  cast  it  now  away ; 

He  ran  where  Eileen  drearily 
Sat  making  her  sad  moan : 

And  merrily,  O,  merrily, 

His  arms  were  round  her  thrown, 
Crying,  “ Joy  is  dawning  cheerily, 
And  sorrow’s  night  is  flown ! ” 


SWEET  IMOKILLY. 


i. 

I met,  within  the  greenwood  wild, 

My  own  true  knight,  that  loved  me  dearly, 
When  summer  airs  blew  soft  and  mild, 

And  linnets  sang,  and  waves  rolled  clearly ; 
And  O,  we  pledged  such  loving  vows 

In  moss-grown  glade,  all  green  and  rilly. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


855 


Where  lightly  waved  the  rustling  boughs 
Of  thy  green  woods,  sweet  Imokilly ! 

ii. 

I met  my  love  in  festive  hall, 

’Mid  lords,  and  knights,  and  warriors  fearless, 
And  there  my  love  among  them  all 
To  my  fond  heart  was  ever  peerless ; 

And  he  was  fond,  and  time  could  ne’er 
His  love  for  me  make  cold  and  chilly ; 

Ah  ! then  I knew  nor  grief  nor  care, 

’Mid  thy  green  woods,  sweet  Imokilly ! 

hi. 

From  Rincrew’s  turrets,  high  and  hoar, 

When  autumn  floods  were  wildly  sweeping, 

I saw  my  love  ride  to  the  shore, 

I saw  him  in  the  torrent  leaping, 

To  meet  me  ’neath  the  twilight  dim, 

In  bowery  nook,  secure  and  stilly, 

But  the  ruthless  waters  swallowed  him, 

By  thy  green  woods,  sweet  Imokilly ! 


SHANE  GOW;  OR,  THE  BOYS  IN  GREEN. 

A.  D.  1798. 

1. 

Up  comes  Shane  Gow,* 

With  his  hammer  in  his  hand  : 

“ Tell  me,  tell  me  how  is  Ireland, 

And  how  does  it  now  stand?  ” 

4 4 Through  and  through  old  Ireland 
There  is  war  now  between 
The  gory  Saxon  despots 

And  the  gallant  boys  in  green.” 

O,  the  gallant  boys  in  green  — 

May  the  God  of  battles  bless  them, 

The  gallant  boys  in  green. 


* John  the  Smith. 


356 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


n. 

Then  he  dashed  down  his  hammer, 
And  he  took  up  his  gun, 

And  he  swore  each  jovial  tradesman 
Should  join  us  every  one; 

And  he  marched  in  review 

With  a brave  and  manly  mien, 
And  prepared  with  his  comrades 
To  join  the  boys  in  green. 

O,  the  gallant  boys  in  green  — 
May  the  God  of  battles  bless  them, 
The  gallant  boys  in  green. 

hi. 

Then  up  comes  a captain, 

With  a burly  seaman’s  shape, 
Saying,  “ I have  a ship  in  company, 
With  green  to  her  cape ; 

If  you  want  to  cross  the  ocean, 

Her  prow  it  is  keen, 

And  I’ll  land  you  all  in  Ireland, 

To  join  the  boys  in  green.” 

O,  the  gallant  boys  in  green  — 
May  the  God  of  battles  bless  them, 
The  gallant  boys  in  green. 


IV. 

So  we  sailed  and  we  sailed 

Till  we  crossed  by  Cape  Clear, 
And  at  sight  of  old  Ireland 
W e gave  a hearty  cheer ; 

And  we  landed  in  a bay, 

By  the  enemy  unseen, 

The  first  immortal  shipload 
That  joined  the  boys  in  green. 

O,  the  gallant  boys  in  green  — 
May  the  God  of  battles  bless  them, 
The  gallant  boys  in  green. 

v. 

Now  fill  me  up  a tankard, 

And  fill  it  to  the  brim, 

And,  brothers  of  my  bosom, 

I’ll  drink  a health  to  them 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


357 


Whose  gr.een  flags  are  flying, 

And  whose  pikeheads  are  keen 
In  the  fight  for  Ireland’s  freedom, 
The  gallant  boys  in  green. 

O,  the  gallant  boys  in  green  — 
May  the  God  of  battles  bless  them. 
The  gallant  boys  in  green. 


I WISH  I SAT  BY  GRENA’S  SIDE. 

Air  — “ I wish  I had  the  yellow  Cow.” 


I. 

I wish  I sat  by  Grena’s  side, 

With  the  friends  of  boyhood-tide, 

With  the  maids,  the  brilliant-eyed, 
Playful,  wild,  and  airy, 

Who  taught  me  that  love  could  go, 
Worship  bright  eyes  to  and  fro, 

But  turning  with  fonder  glow 
Back  to  you,  my  Mary  ! 

ii. 

I wish  I sat  by  Grena's  stream, 

In  the  ruddy  sunset  beam, 

Where  the  waves  leap,  glance,  and  gleam 
On  through  dell  and  wildwood ; 

Ne’er  half  so  fleet  and  free, 

As  the  fairy  feet  of  glee 
Which  danced  ’neath  the  summer  tree 
In  our  dreamy  childhood. 

hi. 

I wish  I sat  by  Grena’s  shore, 

With  the  green  boughs  waving  o’er, 
Where  the  glens  and  mountains  hoar 
Shine,  one  land  of  faery ; 

Then,  O,  how  I’d  muse  and  dream 
Long  beside  that  haunted  stream, 

And  all  on  one  golden  theme  — 

You,  my  lovely  Mary ! 


358 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


IV. 

I wish  I sat  by  Grena’s  wave, 

Hopes  fulfilled  that  boyhood  gave, 
Where  the  woods  clothe  gorge  and  cave, 
Storied  hill  and  plain,  love ; 

You  placed  beside  me  there, 

Laughing,  loving,  wildly  fair, 

Long  parted,  lost,  but  ne’er. 

Ne’er  to  part  again,  love ! 


ROVING  BRIAN  O’CONNELL. 

Air  — “ How  do  you  like  her  for  your  Wife  ? n 


“ How  do  you  like  her  for  your  wife. 
Roving  Brian  O’Connell? 

A loving  mate,  and  true  for  life, 
Roving  Brian  O’Connell?  ” 

“ She’s  as  fit  to  be  my  wife 
As  my  sword  is  for  the  strife,” 

Said  the  Rapparee  trooper, 

Roving  Brian  O'Connell ! 

ii. 

“Ne’er  to  Mabel  prove  untrue. 

Roving  Brian  O’Connell, 

For  O,  she’d  die  for  love  of  you. 
Roving  Brian  O’Connell.” 

“ O,  my  wild  heart  never  knew 
A flame  so  constant  too,” 

Said  the  Rapparee  trooper, 

Roving  Brian  O’Connell ! 

hi. 

“Never  man  my  child  will  take, 
Roving  Brian  O’Connell, 

Save  him  who’d  die  for  Ireland’s  sake, 
Roving  Brian  O’Connell.” 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


“ O,  I’d  die  for  Ireland’s  sake, 

And  her  bonds  we  soon  will  break,” 
Said  the  Rapparee  trooper, 

Roving  Brian  O’Connell ! 

IV. 

“ Her  father  died  as  dies  the  brave, 
Roving  Brian  O’Connell, 

Beneath  the  blow  the  Saxon  gave, 
Roving  Brian  O’Connell.” 

“ Next  we’ll  meet  the  Saxon  knave, 
He’ll  get  pike,  and  gun,  and  glaive,” 
Said  the  Rapparee  trooper, 

Roving  Brian  O’Connell, 

v. 

“ How  will  you  your  young  bride  keep, 
Roving  Brian  O’Connell? 

The  foeman’s  bands  are  ne’er  asleep, 
Roving  Brian  O’Connell.” 

“ In  our  hold  by  Conail’s  steep, 

Who  dare  make  mj  Mabel  weep  ? ” 
Said  the  Rapparee  trooper, 

Roving  Brian  O’Connell. 


VI. 

“ This  day  in  ruined  church  you  stand, 
Roving  Brian  O’Connell, 

To  take  your  young  bride’s  priceless  hand, 
Roving  Brian  O’Connell.” 

“O,  my  heart,  my  arm,  and  brand, 

Are  for  her  and  our  dear  land,” 

Said  the  Rapparee  trooper, 

Roving  Brian  O’Connell. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


THE  ADVICE. 

Air  — “ The  Advice.” 


I. 

Redmond  spoke  the  wise  old  man,  — 
Redmond  Clare  of  Corrin’s  highland,  — 

“ O,  win  my  maid  I never  can, 

The  proudest  heart  in  Erin’s  island ; 

Day  by  day  I've  gone  to  woo, 

And  found  but  pride  and  black  displeasure. 
Then  said  the  sage,  44  If  love  won’t  do, 

Go  court  her  all  with  golden  treasure.” 


ii. 

Redmond  was  the  comeliest  man 

From  Brandon  hill  to  Barrow’s  water, 

Yet  high  howe’er  his  passion  ran, 

She  frowned  on  all  the  love  he  brought  her 
And  Redmond  came  of  gentle  kin, 

But  ah ! he  lacked  fair  Fortune’s  measure, 
And  when  he  failed  her  heart  to  win, 

’Twas  but  for  want  of  golden  treasure. 

hi. 

To  foreign  climes  he  never  ran, 

But  wrought  within  his  native  island, 

Until,  at  last,  the  richest  man 

In  all  the  glens  of  Corrin’s  highland, 

He  went  to  woo  the  maid  again, 

And  met  all  smiles  and  courtly  pleasure, 
And  found,  proud  woman’s  heart  to  win, 
There’s  nothing  like  the  golden  treasure ! 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


361 


THE  FLAME  THAT  BURNED  SO  BRIGHTLY. 

Air  — “ Saddle  the  Pony.” 


There  was  a light  in  the  window  pane, 
Still  burning,  brightly  burning, 

And  it  gleamed  afar  over  Cleena’s  main, 
On  Donall’s  bark  returning ; 

And  he  looked  up,  the  cliffs  between, 
Where  the  hamlet  glimmered  nightly, 
And  thought  he  saw  his  own  Kathleen 
By  the  flame  that  burned  so  brightly. 


ii. 

It  was  upon  All-Hallow’s  night, 

When  the  candles  bright  were  burning, 
That  the  beams  fell  from  that  constant  light, 
On  Donall’s  bark  returning; 

It  lit  like  a star  the  darkening  scene, 

And  made  his  heart  beat  lightly, 

For  he  thought  he  saw  his  own  Kathleen 
By  the  flame  that  burned  so  brightly. 

hi. 

He  moored  his  bark  the  hamlet  near, 

Where  the  candles  bright  were  burning, 
But  a mournful  wail  met  his  startled  ear, 
All-Hallow’s  night  returning; 

And  he  heard  a name  in  that  piercing  keen, 
And  saw  a shroud  gleam  whitely  — 

’Twas  the  waking  light  of  his  own  Kathleen, 
The  flame  that  burned  so  brightly ! 


362 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


EILEEN’S  LAMENT  FOR  GERALD. 

Air  — “ Sian  lath  a chur.” 


i. 

By  loud  Avondliu, 

While  the  sweet  flowerets  blew, 

I’ve  mourned  for  my  Gerald  the  long  summer  through, 

And  autumn  falls  lone 
On  Kilmore’s  mountain  zone, 

But  Cleena,  still  Cleena  ne’er  lieedeth  my  moan. 

ii. 

O,  sweet  fell  the  hours 
By  Crom’s  lordly  towers, 

When  we  strayed,  ever  loving,  through  Maig’s  blooming  bowers 
From  bright  June  to  May 
Was  one  blissful  day, 

Ere  my  true  love  was  borne  from  his  Eileen  away. 

hi. 

With  gems  of  red  gold 
Gleamed  his  mail  in  the  wold, 

As  he  slept  where  the  lone  Druid  worshipped  of  old ; 

But  the  young  Fairy  Queen 
Passed  there  in  the  e’en, 

And  the  flash  of  his  bright  mail  was  never  more  seen. 

IV. 

She  bore  him  that  night 
To  her  palace  of  light, 

In  this  rock  wild  and  lone,  by  the  spells  of  her  might, 

And  she  keeps  him  in  thrall, 

The  bright  prince  of  her  hall, 

While  she  heeds  not  my  wailing,  and  hears  not  my  call. 

v. 

And  thus  I must  weep 
By  Cleena’s  gray  steep, 

Joy  faded,  hope  clouded,  and  sorrow  more  deep; 

Yet  firmer  and  true 
To  the  one  love  I knew, 

Till  I die  in  my  sorrow  by  loud  Avondhu ! 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


863 


THE  HOLLY  TREE. 

Air  — “ I met  a maid,  she  asked  my  trade.” 


I. 

“ O,  daughter,  lovely  daughter, 

Sit  by  my  elbow-chair, 

And  you  shall  have  for  birthday  gift 
Yon  flax-field  shining  fair.” 

“ The  flax  may  vie  with  summer’s  sky 
In  azure  and  in  blue, 

But  I must  have  a better  gift, 

O mother,  dear,  from  you.” 

Sing  ho  ! he  ! he  ! the  holly  tree, 

Its  leaves  are  always  green, 

And  thus  may  shine  love’s  flowers  divine, 
And  ever  bright  be  seen. 


ii. 

“ Cheer  up,  my  blooming  daughter, 

You’ll  have  a gift  instead, 

Yon  gentle  flock  of  snowy  sheep 
Upon  the  hill-side  spread.” 
tl  O mother,  dear,  I’ll  card  the  wool, 

And  spin  the  worsted  fine, 

But  you  may  keep  both  flax  and  sheep, 

For  better  gifts  are  thine.” 

Sing  ho  ! he  ! he  ! the  holly  tree 
Is  green  through  winter’s  gloom, 

And  thus  may  shine  love’s  flowers  divine, 
Forever  bright  in  bloom. 

hi. 

“ Row  laugh,  my  merry  daughter, 

I’l  give  thee  ten  times  more  — 

Yon  spotted  herd  of  lowing  kine 
That  graze  beside  the  shore.” 

“ I’ll  milk  the  kine,  O mother,  dear, 

At  morn  and  evening’s  fall, 

But  de’il  may  take  the  gifts  you  make, 

I hate  them,  one  and  all.” 


364 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


Sing  ho  ! he  ! he  ! the  holly  tree, 

Its  leaves  are  always  green, 

And  thus  may  shine  love’s  flowers  divine, 
And  ever  bright  be  seen. 


IV. 

“ Then  sing!  You’ll  get,  sweet  daughter, 

For  husband  a young  man  ! ” 

“Ho!  ho!  ha!  ha!  O mother,  dear, 

And  see  how  well  I can. 

For,  O,  I love  a nice  young  man  — 

I cannot  tell  you  how ; 

But  ten  times  more  than  fields  of  flax, 

And  more  than  sheep  or  cow.” 

Sing  ho  ! he  ! he  ! the  holly  tree 
Is  green  through  winter’s  gloom, 

And  thus  may  shine  love’s  flowers  divine, 
Forever  bright  in  bloom. 


And  she  embraced  her  mother, 

No  more  to  sigh  or  crave; 

Like  the  cracking  of  a hazel-nut, 

The  hearty  kiss  she  gave : 

Then  danced,  with  strapping,  twinkling  feet 
A reel  the  kitchen  round, 

Till  pots  and  pans,  and  plates  and  cans, 

Gave  back  the  gladsome  sound. 

With  ho  ! he  ! he  ! the  holly  tree, 

Its  leaves  are  always  green, 

And  thus  may  shine  love’s  flowers  divine, 
And  ever  bright  be  seen. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


365 


MERRILY,  MERRILY  PLAYING. 

Air  — “ Gleantaun  Araglin  eving.” 


I. 

Merrily,  merrily  playing, 
Dances  the  rill  away, 

"Where  breezes  soft  are  straying, 
And  linnets  sing  all  day ; 
Sweeter  than  wood-rill’s  glee  is, 
Sweeter  than  linnet’s  tune, 

My  Helen’s  voice  to  me  is, 

All  in  the  rose-bright  June. 


ii. 

My  love  than  the  rose  is  sweeter 
That  blooms  in  yonder  dell, 

And  far  I’ve  come  to  meet  her, 

For,  O,  she  loves  me  well ; 

And  the  stream  by  the  gay  beams  lighted 
Shall  freeze  in  the  summer  noon, 

Ere  we  break  the  vows  we’ve  plighted 
All  in  the  rose-bright  June. 


366 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


MY  TRUE  LOVE. 

Air  — “ Tlie  May  Morning*.” 


I. 

My  love  has  a form  of  splendor ; 

My  love  has  an  eye  divine ; 

My  love  has  a heart  full  tender, 
And  I know  that  heart  is  mine; 
Her  swan-like  neck  and  bosom 
Are  softly  fair  and  pure 
As  the  snowy  wild-rose  blossom, 
Or  the  white  flower  of  the  moor. 


ii. 

The  summer  streamlets  playing, 

Plow  down  in  light  and  song, 

So  my  thoughts  to  her  go  straying 
Through  night,  and  all  day  long, 

And  to  the  bliss  which  crowned  me, 

When  I kissed  her  o’er  and  o’er, 

When  my  true-love’s  arms  were  round  me, 
By  the  wild  lake’s  rocky  shore. 

hi. 

My  love’s  like  a bright  May  morning, 

So  pure,  so  mild,  so  bland; 

My  love’s  like  a rose  adorning 
A bower  in  some  fairy  land. 

How  I long  for  red  eve’s  shining, 

To  see  my  true-love  stand, 

Her  golden  tresses  twining 

With  her  snow-white  lily  hand. 


IV. 

There’s  a stream  in  the  wild-wood  springing, 
Where  the  birds  chant  on  each  tree  : 

O,  I deem  them  forever  singing, 

My  mountain  maid,  of  thee. 

And  that  stream  the  mountains  blue,  love, 

A deep  sea  shall  o’erflow, 

Ere  I forsake  my  true-love, 

Or  my  heart  one  change  shall  know. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


367 


SONG  OF  SARSFIELD’S  TROOPER. 

Air  — “ Here’s  our  brave  Lord  Lucan.” 


i. 

The  night  fell  dark  on  Limerick,  and  all  the  land  was  still, 

As  for  the  foe  in  ambush  we  lay  beside  the  hill; 

Like  lions  bold  we  waited,  to  rush  upon  our  prey, 

With  noble  Sarsfield  at  our  head,  before  the  break  of  day. 

From  Dublin  came  the  foeman,  with  guns  and  warlike  store  — 
To  gain  the  walls  of  Limerick  he’d  want  full  ten  times  more ; 
And  little  was  he  dreaming,  that  there  to  work  his  doom, 

We’d  come  with  gallant  Sarsfield,  far  down  from  wild  Sliav  Bluim. 

ii. 

At  the  lonely  hour  of  midnight  each  man  leapt  on  his  steed, 

And  ’cross  the  bridge  of  Cullen  we  dashed  with  lightning  speed ; 
And  up  the  way  we  thundered  to  Ballineety’s  wall, 

Where  lay  our  foes  securely,  with  guns,  and  stores,  and  all. 
When  they  asked  for  the  password,  “ Ho  ! Sarsfield  is  the  man ! 
And  here  I am ! ” our  general  cried,  as  down  on  them  we  ran  ; 
Then  God  He  cleared  the  firmament,  the  moon  and  stars  gave 
light, 

And  for  the  battle  of  the  Boyne  we  had  revenge  that  night.* 
hi. 

When  we’d  slain  them  all,  brave  Sarsfield  he  bade  us  take  that 
store 

Of  baggage-carts,  and  powder,  and  arms  and  guns  galore, 

And  pile  them  by  the  castle,  and  place  the  fuse  full  nigh ; 

And  that  we  did  right  speedily,  and  blew  them  in  the  sky! 

How  pleasant  spoke  our  general  as  fast  we  rode  away! 

And  many  a health  we  drank  to  him  in  Limerick  next  day : 
Here’s  another  health  to  Sarsfield,  who  led  us  one  and  all, 

And  took  the  foe’s  artillery  by  Ballineety’s  wall ! 

* These  two  lines  are  from  an  old  song  on  the  same  subject,  the  frag 
meats  of  which  remain  still  among  the  peasantry. 


368 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


THE  WANDERER. 
Air  — “ Sian  Beo.” 


i. 

O,  green  are  the  woods  that  circle  my  Helen’s  wild  home, 

O,  sweetest  her  smiles  from  Houra  to  Cleena’s  bright  foam, 

And  brightest  her  eyes  ’mong  the  blue  eyes  of  splendor  that  beam 
’Mid  the  hills  of  the  South,  by  wild-wood,  and  fountain,  and 


I sat  all  alone  by  the  wood-screened  banks  of  the  Suir, 

While  the  calm  sky  of  eve  shone  bright  in  its  breast  fresh  and 
pure ; 

O,  every  fair  cloud,  like  a gold-winged  angel  above, 

Left  an  image  below  — a glory-robed  trace  of  my  love. 

hi. 

And  once  by  the  marge  of  Cleena’s  waters  I lay, 

In  a sweet  dream  of  love  and  joy  at  the  opening  of  day; 

The  beams  of  the  morn  smiled  over  the  blue  billows  there, 

The  smiles  of  my  love,  the  wreaths  of  her  long  golden  hair. 

iv. 

By  Shannon’s  green  shore  my  wandering  footsteps  I stayed 
On  a wave-worn  steep,  to  dream  of  my  yellow-haired  maid ; 

I thought  of  her  arched  brow  and  fair  neck  of  snow, 

As  I saw  the  fleet  wing  of  the  white  gull  gleaming  below. 

v. 

And  thus  as  I stray  by  river,  and  wild-wood,  and  sea, 

All  Nature  still  paints  but  one  lovely  image  for  me; 

And,  O,  for  the  joy  when  standing  by  Ounanar’s  tide, 

In  the  greenwood  again,  with  my  bright-eyed  love  by  my  side. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


869 


FAIREST  AND  RAREST. 
Air  — “ The  rarest  Maid.” 


i. 

Fairest  and  rarest 

Of  all  the  maids  that  be, 
Sweetest  and  meetest 
For  minstrel’s  love  is  she, 
She  who  loved  me  longest, 
When  far,  far  away  ; — 
With  a love  the  strongest 
I love  her  to-day. 

ii. 

Keep  me  and  steep  me 
In  black  Sorrow’s  wave, 
Fair  dreams  and  rare  dreams 
Of  my  love  could  save ; — 
Save  my  heart,  and  borrow 
Light  in  such  dark  doom, 
Make,  ’mid  desert  sorrow, 
Joy’s  gay  flowers  to  bloom. 

hi. 

Deeming,  sweet  dreaming, 
Such  a joy  to  me, 

How  bright  with  joy’s  light 
Must  the  present  be  ! 

When  her  eyes  are  shining, 
Void  of  care  and  pain, 
When  her  arms  are  twining 
Round  me  once  again. 

24 


370 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


COME,  ALL  YOU  MAIDS,  WHERE’ER  YOU  BE. 

Air  — “ Come,  all  ye  Maids.” 


Come,  all  you  maids,  where’er  you  be, 
That  flourish  fair  and  fine,  fine, 

To  young  and  old  I will  unfold 
This  hapless  tale  of  mine, 

Mine, 

This  hapless  tale  of  mine ! 


ii. 

The  sun  shall  set  upon  my  grief, 

The  sun  shall  rise  the  same,  same, 

And  ever  so  shall  live  my  woe, 

Enduring  as  his  flame, 

Flame, 

Enduring  as  his  flame. 

in. 

My  home  was  in  the  border  land, 

Where  the  flashing  streams  rush  down,  down, 
From  Houra’s  hill ; there  with  gallant  Will 
I met  in  the  autumn  brown, 

Brown, 

I met  in  the  autumn  brown. 


IV. 

He  said,  his  love  so  fond  and  true 
Would  never  die  for  me,  me, 

That  my  eyes  shamed  the  hue  of  the  violet  blue, 
And  my  lips  the  red  rose  tree, 

Tree, 

The  bloom  of  the  red  rose  tree. 


v. 

Alas  ! I liked  and  loved  him  well, 

Though  I answered  cold  as  stone,  stone, 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 

So  he  turned  his  steed  to  the  wars  with  speed, 
And  he  left  me  weeping  lone, 

Lone,  — 

To  sigh  and  weep  alone. 

VI. 

Grief  made  my  love  burn  wild  and  strong, 

So  I followed  him  full  fain,  fain, 

But  by  Knock’noss  Hill,  O,  my  gallant  Will 
Lay  dying  amid  the  slain, 

Slain, 

Lay  dying  amid  the  slain ! 

VII. 

And  down  I knelt  by  my  true  love’s  side, 

And  he  bent  his  eyes  on  me,  me ; 

One  long,  long  look  of  love  he  took, 

And  he  died  on  that  blood-stained  lea, 

Lea, 

He  died  on  that  blood-stained  lea ! 

VIII. 

The  sun  shall  set  upon  my  grief, 

The  sun  shall  rise  the  same,  same, 

And  ever  so  shall  live  my  woe, 

Enduring  as  his  flame, 

Elame, 

Enduring  as  his  flame ! 


IRELAND  OUR  QUEEN. 
Air  — “ Irish  Molly,  O ! ” 


Come  all  you  Irish  maidens,  and  Irish  wives  also, 

I pray  you  teach  the  young  men  the  way  that  they  should  go 
A martial  lady  walks  the  land,  — our  long-dethroned  queen, 
Her  banner  is  the  Sunburst  grand,  her  color  is  the  Green ! 


372 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


II. 

As  I went  out  one  morning  along  the  river  side, 

Down  by  the  tumbling  water,  this  lady  fair  I spied ; 

Bright  and  rosy  were  her  cheeks,  and  raven-black  her  hair, 

And  the  robes  were  all  of  green  and  gold  this  Irish  queen  did 
wear. 

hi. 

Her  shoes  were  of  the  Spanish  buff,  bound  round  with  silken 
sheen, 

And  ’cross  her  breast  a baldrick  blazed  — a baldrick  of  the  Green  ; 
And  from  that  flashing  baldrick  bright  an  Irish  blade  hung  down, 
And  on  its  emerald  hilt  was  graved  the  Harp  without  the  Crown  ! 


iv. 


And  she  that  was  so  sorrowful  and  sad  in  days  gone  by, 

The  light  of  hope  was  on  her  brow,  and  war  was  in  her  eye. 

“ 0,  why  are  you  so  glad,  bright  queen,  that  wept  so  long  and 
sore  ? ’ 

“ Because  the  morning  dawns,”  she  cried;  “ my  sons  arise  once 
more. 


v. 


“ And  not  as  they  were  wont  to  rise,  undisciplined  and  rude, 
With  creed  ’gainst  creed,  and  brothers’  swords  in  brothers’  blood 
imbrued ; 

But  hand  in  hand  throughout  the  land  my  faithful  sons  are  seen, 
With  hopeful  words  and  ready  swords  to  battle  for  the  Green!  ” 


VI. 

With  cap  in  hand  down  knelt  I there  before  my  noble  queen; 
She  drew  her  sword  and  dubbed  me,  too,  a soldier  of  the  Green ; 
I kissed  its  hilt,  and  vowed  unto  the  God  whom  I adore, 

That  I would  die  a soldier’s  death  or  free  my  native  shore ! 


VII. 

Come,  all  you  Irish  young  men,  now  list  to  what  I say : 

Have  weapons  bright  and  powder  dry  before  the  coming  day  — 
The  morning  clears  — awake ! arise ! and  rally  round  your 
queen, 

And  show  the  world  that  Irishmen  still  love  their  native  Green  J 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


373 


MARY,  THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  WEST. 

Air  — “ Nancy,  the  Pride  of  the  East.” 

I. 

The  summer  shines  bright  from  the  plain 
To  the  hills  where  the  gray  rocks  are  piled ; 
The  birds  sing  a clear,  joyous  strain, 

And  the  flowers  are  in  bloom  o’er  the  wild ; 
But  a flower  all  these  fair  flowers  above 
In  sweetness,  blooms  deep  in  my  breast,  — 
’Tis  the  lone  flower  of  fondness  and  love 
For  Mary,  the  Pride  of  the  West. 


ii. 

There’s  an  ash-tree  that  blooms  light  and  fair, 
Where  the  linnets  in  May  make  their  bower ; 
There’s  a rose-bush  beyond  all  compare, 

By  the  walls  of  the  gray  mountain  tower ; 
But  how  lovely  soe’er  that  lone  tree, 

And  the  bush  all  in  white  blossoms  dressed, 
As  fair  and  as  lovely  is  she, 

My  Mary,  the  Pride  of  the  West. 

in. 

When  she  goes  from  the  wild  hills  among 
To  the  town  on  the  verge  of  the  plain, 

Could  you  see  her  sweet  face  ’mid  the  throng, 
You  ne’er  would  forget  it  again; 

And  the  gallants  who  pass,  when  they  see, 

And  the  crowd,  think  her  brightest  and  best, 
And  they  ask  who  such  fair  maid  can  be, 

My  Mary,  the  Pride  of  the  W est ! 

IV. 

When  each  night  at  her  father’s  broad  hearth, 

I sit  near  my  love  by  the  fire, 

I have  all  that  my  heart  on  this  earth 
Can  love,  and  adore,  and  admire ; 

Then  her  eyes,  like  two  clear  stars  above, 

With  their  kind  looks  on  me  often  rest, 

Till  I’m  wild,  wild  with  fondness  and  love 
For  Mary,  the  Pride  of  the  West. 


374 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


MY  LOVE  IS  ON  THE  RIVER. 

Air  — 11  Ta  mo  grad  sa  ar  an  abainn.” 


I. 

Sliav  Gua’s  highlands  shade  meadow  and  moor, 

And  guard  the  green  islands  of  the  golden  Suir : 

The  Tar  brightly  sallies  from  their  cooms,  wild  and  fleet, 
And  sings  through  the  valleys  that  bloom  at  their  feet. 
More  bright  to-day  than  they  e’er  shone  before, 

Shine  castle  gray,  and  green  height,  and  shore ; 

O,  the  splendors  that  quiver  o’er  wildwood  and  lea, 
While  my  love  is  on  the  river  in  his  light  boat  with  me. 


ii. 

Swift  as  foot  of  the  beagle  from  the  hills  doth  he  hie, 
Bright  as  glance  of  the  eagle  the  glance  of  his  eye ; 

When  the  Green  Flag’s  unfurled  he  is  straight  as  its  tree, 
Never  heart  in  the  world  could  be  fonder  of  me. 

Outlawed  and  lone  lived  he  many  a day 

In  his  cold  cave  of  stone,  ’mid  the  hills  far  away; 

But  truth  conquers  ever,  and  my  love  he  is  free, 

On  the  Suir’s  golden  river,  in  his  light  boat  with  me. 

hi. 

Sweet  songs  are  ringing  from  the  birds  of  the  grove, 

But  sweeter  the  singing  of  my  own  gallant  love ; 

O,  his  brave  words  first  found  me  in  sadness  and  pain, 

But  they  soon  strewed  around  me  joy’s  bright  flowers  again. 
And  he  never  more  from  my  arms  shall  be  torn ; 

The  fair  chapel  door  shall  receive  us  next  morn ; 

And  the  green  woods  shall  quiver  to  our  bridal  bells’  glee, 
For  my  love  is  on  the  river,  in  his  light  boat  with  me. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


375 


GLENARA. 

Air  — “ She  is  my  true  Love.” 


i. 

Grand  are  the  mountains  that  circle  Glenara, 

See-Fein,  wild  Corrin,  Knockea,  and  Sliav  Dara ; 
Proudly  their  summits  look  down  where  its  sheen  flood 
Lies  coiled  in  the  gorges  or  sunk  in  the  greenwood. 


ii. 

Sweet  are  the  scenes  where  that  wild  flood  enlarges, 
Peaceful  the  homes  by  its  flower-scented  marges ; 
Fair  are  the  maidens  with  eyes  brightly  glowing, 
Who  bide  by  its  windings  and  list  to  its  flowing. 

hi. 

Ever  the  fairest  ’mid  Beauty’s  gay  daughters, 

D.weils  my  young  love  by  the  sound  of  its  waters ; 
Roams  she  at  eve  through  its  fairy  recesses, 

My  maid  of  the  blue  eyes  and  long,  golden  tresses. 


. IV. 

One  summer  even  I sped  to  the  fountain, 

Sped  to  her  side  from  my  home  o’er  the  mountain : 
There  a lone  dreamer  to  sweet  bliss  awoken, 

My  fond  vows  of  love  to  a fond  heart  were  spoken. 


v. 

Far  from  my  dear  mountain  home  as  I wander, 

Ever  with  joy  on  that  evening  I ponder, 

Thinking  and  dreaming  how  fraught  with  sweet  glory 
My  days  by  her  side,  ’mid  those  hills  wild  and  hoary. 


876 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


ASTHOREEN  MACHREE. 

Air — “ Astoria  Machree.” 


1. 

Summer  with  gay  flowers  the  hills  was  adorning, 

Streams  through  the  wildwood  sang  sweetly  and  free, 
As  I ’scaped  from  my  cell  at  the  dawn  of  the  morning, 
My  dark  tyrant  scorning,  Asthoreen  Machree. 


ii. 

O,  in  that  prison  my  heart  was  all  sadness ; 

O,  but  the  long  days  fell  heavy  on  me, 

Still  thinking  I never  might  see  thee  in  gladness, 
Brooding  in  madness,  Asthoreen  Machree. 

hi. 

Now  I have  ’scaped,  but  such  darkness  was  never; 

How  could  the  brightness  arise  save  from  thee  ? 
Woe  and  despair,  they  have  crossed  my  endeavor, 
Thou  sleeping  forever,  Asthoreen  Machree. 

IV. 

Out  in  the  forest  the  branches  are  shaking ; 

There  the  sad  Banshee  is  wailing  for  me ; 

Down  from  the  trees  the  strong  boughs  she  is  taking, 
My  bier  she  is  making,  Asthoreen  Machree. 


v. 

Soon  shall  we  meet  in  the  grave’s  silent  dwelling; 

O,  but  ’tis  joy  thus  to  slumber  with  thee ; 

Soon  shall  the  keeners  my  hard  fate  be  telling, 

My  death-bell  loud  knelling,  Asthoreen  Machree. 


SONGS,  POEMS,.  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


377 


THE  UNDERTAKERS.* 

Air  — “ The  Boys  of  Wexford.” 


I. 

When  Ginkell  signed  his  king  to  bind 
On  Limerick’s  treaty  stone, 

We  thought  us  free  from  th’  enemie. 

Our  good  lands  all  our  own. 

That  felon  plot,  it  freed  us  not, 

But  wrought  us  woe  and  shame : 

Eor,  gorged  with  blood,  the  demon  brood 
Of  undertakers  came; 

And  O,  they  racked  the  Irishman, 

And  ground  him  fierce  and  sore, 

Like  Israel’s  clan,  ’neatli  Pharaoh’s  ban, 
In  Egypt’s  land  of  yore. 


ii. 

And  though  our  proud,  sad  hearts  we  bowed 
In  peace  beneath  their  sway, 

They  broke  their  troth  and  plighted  oath, 

And  robbed  us  day  by  day. 

Honor  and  trust,  in  blood  and  dust, 

They  trampled  madly  down, 

’Cause  on  their  hordes  we  bared  our  swords 
Eor  Ireland’s  old  renown. 

And  O,  they  racked  the  Irishman, 

And  ground  him  fierce  and  sore, 

And  still  to-day  their  children  play 
That  black  game  played  of  yore ! 

hi. 

With  penal  laws  they  doomed  our  cause 
To  wreck  by  slow  degrees, 

But  hope  still  bloomed,  howe’er  they  doomed 
The  homeless  Rapparees ; 

With  bloodhounds  good  they  tracked  each  wood, 

Our  cavern  lairs  to  find, 

The  soldiers  of  King  William,  to  whom  the  confiscated  Irish  lands 
e granted  after  the  siege  and  treaty  of  Limerick. 


378 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


Till  you  could  see  on  every  tree 
Some  corpse  swing  in  the  wind. 

Tor  O,  they  racked  the  Irishman, 

And  ground  him  fierce  and  sore. 
And  who’ll  deny  that  still  they  ply 
That  black  trade  plied  of  yore  ? 

IV. 

And  though  we  now  ply  spade  and  plough. 
Who’ll  reap  the  crop  he  sows? 

Ah  ! plough  and  sow  ; but  reap  and  mow 
Are  other  things,  God  knows. 

The  good,  strong  hand  that  tills  the  land 
The  agent  swreeps  away, 

Like  those  lost  hearts  who  bore  their  parts 
’Neath  th’  undertakers’  sway. 

And  O,  they  racked  the  Irishman, 

And  ground  him  fierce  and  sore ; 
But  Israel’s  clan  from  Pharaoh’s  ban 
Were  freed  in  days  of  yore. 


MARGREAD  BAN. 

Air  — “ The  old  Astrologer.” 


My  wild  heart’s  love,  my  woodland  dove, 
The  tender  and  the  true, 

She  dwells  beside  a blue  stream’s  tide 
That  bounds  through  wild  Glenroe  ; 
Through  every  change  her  love’s  the  same, 
A long,  bright  summer  dawn, 

A gentle  flame,  — and  O,  her  name 
Is  lovely  Margread  Ban. 

O,  joy,  that  on  her  paths  I came, 

My  lovely  Margread  Ban ! 


ii. 

When  winter  hoar  comes  freezing  o’er 
The  mountains  ^ wild  and  gray, 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


379 


Her  neck  is  white  as  snow-wreaths  bright, 

Upon  thy  crags,  Knockea; 

Her  lips  are  red  as  roses  sweet 
On  Dara’s  flowery  lawn ; 

Her  fairy  feet  are  light  and  fleet, 

My  gentle  Margread  Ban  ; 

And  O,  her  steps  I love  to  meet, 

My  own  dear  Margread  Ban ! 

hi. 

When  silence  creeps  o’er  Houra’s  steeps, 

As  blue  eve  ends  its  reign, 

Her  long  locks’  fold  is  like  the  gold 
That  gleams  o’er  sky  and  main. 

My  heart’s  fond  sorrow  fled  away 
Like  night  before  the  dawn, 

When  one  spring  day  I went  astray, 

And  met  my  Margread  Ban, 

And  felt  her  blue  eyes’  sparkling  ray, 

My  lovely  Margread  Ban. 

iv. 

One  summer  noon,  to  hear  the  tune 
Of  wild  birds  in  the  wood, 

Where  murmuring  streams  flashed  back  the  beams, 
All  rapt  in  bliss  I stood ; 

The  birds  sang  from  the  fairy  moat, 

From  greenwood,  brake,  and  lawn ; 

But  never  throat  could  chaunt  a note 
So  sweet  as  Margread  Ban, 

As  through  the  vales  her  wild  songs  float. 

My  lovely  Margread  Ban. 

v. 

O,  would  that  we  for  love  might  flee 
To  some  far  valley  green, 

Where  never  more,  by  rock  or  shore, 

Dark  Sorrow  could  be  seen. 

I know  a valley,  wildly  fair, 

From  strife  far,  far  withdrawn ; 

And  ever  there  the  loving  air 
Of  gentle  Margread  Ban 
Would  keep  this  fond  heart  free  from  care, 

My  lovely  Margread  Ban. 


380 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


OVER  THE  HILLS  AND  FAR  AWAY. 

Air  — “Over  tlie  Hills” 


I. 

From  night  till  morn,  from  morn  till  night, 

My  thoughts  dwell  with  a sweet  delight, 

And  all  upon  a maiden  bright, 

Who  dwells  by  Houra’s  rocky  height, 

Over  the  hills  and  far  away, 

Over  the  hills  and  far  away ; 

I think  of  her  both  night  and  day, 

Over  the  hills  and  far  away. 

ii. 

And  is  my  maid  a proper  theme? 

And  is  she  worthy  of  my  dream? 

Go,  catch  her  smile  and  clear  eyes’  beam, 

By  Houra’s  hill  or  Grena’s  stream, 

Over  the  hills  and  far  away ; 

And  ne’er  was  one,  you’ll  think  and  say, 
So  lovely  as  my  maiden  gay, 

Over  the  hills  and  far  away. 

hi. 

And  have  you  seen  the  violet  blow  ? 

Its  tints  within  her  fond  eyes  glow? 

Her  skin  is  fair  as  blooms  that  grow, 

In  wild  March  on  the  fragrant  sloe, 

Over  the  hills  and  far  away, 

Over  the  hills  and  far  away, 

I think  of  her  both  night  and  day, 

Over  the  hills  and  far  away. 

IV. 

Yet  ’tis  not  for  her  sweet  smile’s  charm, 

And  ’tis  not  for  her  graceful  form, 

But  for  her  heart,  so  true  and  warm, 

My  love  burns  on,  through  calm  and  storm. 
Over  the  hills  and  far  away, 

Whate’er  my  lot,  where’er  I stray, 

I’ll  think  of  her  both  night  and  day, 
Over  the  hills  and  far  away. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHOBT  BALLADS. 


381 


THE  GREEN  AND  THE  GOLD. 

Air  — “ Neil  McCreaman  was  a braw  Hieland  Soldier.” 


I. 

In  the  soft,  blooming  vales  of  our  country, 
Two  colors  shine  brightest  of  all, 

O’er  mountain,  and  moorland,  and  meadow”, 

On  cottage  and  old  castle  wall ; 

They  shine  in  the  gay  summer  garden, 

And  glint  in  the  depths  of  the  wold, 

And  they  gleam  on  the  banner  of  Ireland, 

Our  colors,  the  green  and  the  gold. 

Then  hurrah  for  the  green  and  the  gold ! 
By  the  fresh  winds  of  Freedom  out-rolled, 
As  they  shine  on  the  brave  Irish  banner, 

Our  colors,  the  green  and  the  gold. 

ii. 

In  the  days  of  Fomorian  and  Fenian, 

These  colors  flashed  bright  in  the  ray ; 

And  their  gleam  kept  the  fierce  Roman  eagles 
In  Rome-conquered  Britain  at  bay; 

When  Conn  forgot  his  hundred  red  battles, 
And  the  lightning  struck  Dathy  of  old, 

As  he  bore  through  Helvetia’s  wild  gorges 
Our  colors,  the  green  and  the  gold. 

Then  hurrah  for  the  green  and  the  gold ! 
May  they  flourish  for  ages  untold, 

May  they  blaze  in  the  vanguard  of  Freedom, 
Our  colors,  the  green  and  the  gold. 

hi. 

Up  many  a grim  breach  of  glory, 

In  many  a fierce  battle’s  tide, 

Flashing  high  o’er  the  red,  gleaming  surges, 
Our  banners  swept  on  in  their  pride, 

From  the  day  when  triumphant  they  fluttered 
O’er  the  legions  of  Brian  the  Bold, 


382 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


Till  with  Sarsfield  they  streamed  down  the  Shannon, 
Our  colors,  the  green  and  the  gold ! 

Then  hurrah  for  the  green  and  the  gold ! 

In  Victory’s  van,  as  of  old, 

May  they  flash  over  new  Irish  legions, 

Our  colors,  the  green  and  the  gold ! 

IV. 

In  these  dark  days  of  doom  and  disaster, 

Is  it  dead,  the  old  love  for  our  land? 

Are  our  bosoms  less  brave  than  our  fathers’? 

Comes  the  sword-hilt  less  deft  to  our  hand? 

No ; we’ve  proved  us  the  wide  world  over, 

Wherever  War’s  surges  have  rolled, 

And  we’ll  raise  once  again  in  old  Ireland, 

Our  colors,  the  green  and  the  gold! 

Then  hurrah  for  the  green  and  the  gold, 

And  hurrah  for  the  valiant  and  bold 
Who  will  raise  them  supreme  in  old  Ireland, 

Our  colors,  the  green  and  the  gold. 


MY  HANDSOME  YOUNG  MAN. 

Air  — “ John  the  Journeyman.” 


I. 

My  handsome  young  man  is  no  coward  or  slave ; 

He’s  kindly,  he’s  pleasant,  he’s  brilliant  and  brave ; 

On  the  throne  of  my  heart,  since  our  courtship  began, 

In  the  warm  light  of  love  sits  my  handsome  young  man. 

ii. 

His  laugh  is  like  music,  his  words  ever  gay, 

And  he  smiles  like  the  sun  on  the  morning  of  May, 

And  the  warblings  of  birds  in  the  Moat  of  Dunsan 

Are  less  sweet  than  the  songs  of  my  handsome  young  man. 

in. 

His  short,  curling  hair  in  the  sun  shines  like  gold, 

And  his  step’s  like  the  step  of  a chieftain  of  old ; 

For  the  pure  Irish  blood  that  through  centuries  ran, 

Throbs  warm  in  the  heart  of  my  handsome  young  man. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


883 


IV. 

My  handsome  young  man  at  the  muster  is  seen, 

With  his  jacket  of  blue  and  his  feather  of  green. 

“ May  the  brave  wind  of  Freedom  those  green  feathers  fan 
To  the  land  of  my  birth,”  says  my  handsome  young  man. 

v. 

“ In  the  land  of  my  birth  still  the  dark  tyrants  reign, 

And  they  mocked  all  our  efforts  to  sever  their  chain ; 

But  the  next  time  they’ll  find  it  no  flash  in  the  pan, 

When  we  rise  in  our  wrath,”  says  my  handsome  young  man. 

VI. 

Then  all  you  young  maidens,  ne’er  smile  on  a slave ; 

Choose  a sweetheart,  like  me,  from  the  ranks  of  the  brave, 
From  the  soldiers  who’ll  fight  against  Tyranny’s  ban, 

For  the  land  of  their  birth,  like  my  handsome  young  man. 


OUR  SONG. 

Air  — “ Cannon  Balls  and  Bombshells.” 


I. 

O,  you  at  home  preparing, 

And  you  who  in  the  fray, 
Beneath  each  foreign  banner, 
Fought  well  to  win  the  day, 
Come  join,  no  more  to  sunder, 
Old  Ireland’s  banner  under, 

For  now  her  shouts  of  Freedom 
Along  her  mountains  thunder ! 
Hurrah!  hurrah!  hurrah! 

United,  heart  and  hand, 
We’ll  die  like  gallant  soldiers, 
Or  free  our  native  land ! 


ii. 

“ Who  makes  the  bravest  sweetheart?” 
I asked  my  Irish  maid ; 

She  said,  “ A jovial  soldier, 

Who  wears  the  green  cockade ! ” 


384 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


I took  it  as  a token, 

So  fond  her  words  were  spoken, 
That  me  my  maid  will  marry, 

When  Ireland’s  bonds  are  broken ! 

Hurrah!  hurrah!  &c. 

iii. 

The  night  that  wrapped  old  Ireland 
In  centuries  of  gloom. 

The  dazzling  beams  of  Freedom 
Its  fading  skirts  illume ; 

Nor  long  shall  tyrants  wound  her, 
Nor  slavery  confound  her, 

For  soon  in  bright  battalions 

Her  children  shall  surround  her ! 

Hurrah!  hurrah!  &c. 


IY. 

O,  you  who  wear  the  Orange, 

Our  ancient,  sturdy  foe, 

With  you,  for  sake  of  Ireland, 

Our  contests  we  forego  ; 

One  kindly  mother  bore  us, 

One  tyrant  ever  tore  us ; 

Then  let  us  join  together 

In  Freedom’s  thundering  chorus  ! 
Hurrah,  hurrah ! &c. 


Y. 

O,  gayly  shines  our  banner, 

With  white,  and  gold,  and  green, 
With  a sunburst  like  the  morning, 

And  shamrock’s  gleaming  sheen ; 

Our  blood  shall  stain  her  splendor, 
Ere  dark  defeat  attend  her. 

With  our  war-cry,  “ Fag-an-Bealach  ! ” 
Our  watchword,  4 ‘No  surrender!  ” 
Hurrah!  hurrah!  &c. 


VI. 

Then,  comrades,  gallant  comrades, 
Now  join  this  prayer  with  me : 
Confusion  to  the  tyrants 
Who  cause  our  slavery ; 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


385 


May  traitors  rot  and  moulder,  a 
May  Ireland’s  sons  behold  her 
On  Freedom’s  field  triumphant, 
Stout  shoulder  unto  shoulder ! 
Hurrah  ! hurrah  ! hurrah ! 

United,  heart  and  hand, 
We’ll  die  like  gallant  soldiers, 
Or  free  our  native  land ! 


THE  WITHERED  ROSE. 

Air—  “ The  Orange  Rose.” 


Fair  blooms  array  the  summer  bowers 
Along  the  woodlands  airy, 

But  fairer  still  this  flower  of  flowers 
I got  from  my  dear  Mary. 

The  purple  heath-bell  pairits  the  steep, 

Wild  rock  and  glen  illuming; 

More  dear  this  withered  flower  I keep, 

Than  all  the  wild  flowers  blooming. 

O,  fair  the  blooms  that  deck  the  bowers, 
And  paint  the  mountains  airy ; 

O,  fairer  still  this  flower  of  flowers, 

I got  from  my  dear  Mary ! 

ii. 

O,  sweet  the  days  of  long  ago, 

When  love  with  joy  was  weaven, 

When  in  the  fairy  dells  below 
We  met  each  summer  even; 

When  Mary  sat  in  beauty  nigh, 

And  sang  the  songs  I taught  her, 

And  spoke  the  love  that  ne’er  shall  die, 

By  Grena’s  sunny  water. 

O,  fair  the  blooms  that  deck  the  bowers. 
And  paint  the  mountains  airy ; 

O,  fairer  still  this  flower  of  flowers 
I got  from  my  dear  Mary. 

25 


386 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


III. 

It  was  upon  a Saint  John’s  night 
She  gave  me  that  red  blossom ; 

’Twas  blooming  in  its  freshness  bright, 

Upon  her  loving  bosom  ; 

And  since,  through  changing  joys  and  tears, 
Though  Fate  her  smiles  denied  me, 

O,  ever  since,  for  five  long  years, 

I’ve  kept  that  flower  beside  me. 

O,  sweet  the  blooms  that  deck  the  bowers, 
And  paint  the  mountains  airy ! 

O,  sweeter  still  this  flower  of  flowers 
I got  from  my  dear  Mary ! 

IV. 

And  when  once  more  I meet  her  gaze, 

By  Grena’s  crystal  water, 

How  sweet  to  talk  of  those  young  days 
When  by  the  wave  I sought  her; 

When  care  is  fled,  and  woe  is  dead, 

And  joy  alone  is  shining, 

When  meeting  them  in  that  wild  glen, 

Her  arms  are  round  me  twining, 

O,  then  beside  our  native  bowers, 

Amid  the  woodlands  airy, 

This  long-kept,  priceless  flower  of  flowers 
I’ll  show  to  my  dear  Mary. 


LAMENT  OF  MARION  CREAGH. 

Air  — “ Margaret  Roche.” 


i. 

The  woods  of  Drumlory 
Are  greenest  and  fairest, 

And  flowers  in  gay  glory 
Bloom  there  of  the  rarest : 
They’ll  deck  without  number 
A grave  red  and.  narrow, 

Where  he’ll  sleep  his  last  slumber, 
Young  Hugh  of  Glenurra. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


387 


ii. 

The  canavaun ’s  blooming 
Like  snow  on  the  marish, 

The  autumn  is  coming, 

The  summer  flowers  perish ; 

And  though  Love  smiles  all  gladness, 
He’s  left  me  in  sorrow, 

To  mourn  in  my  madness 
Young  Hugh  of  Glenurra! 

hi. 

Sweet  love  filled  forever 
His  kind  words  and  glances ; 

Light  foot  there  was  never 
Like  his  in  the  dances, 

By  forest  or  fountain, 

In  goal  on  the  curragh, 

Or  chase  on  the  mountain, 

Young  Hugh  of  Glenurra! 

IV. 

When  cannons  did  rattle, 

And  trumpets  brayed  loudly, 

In  the  grim  van  of  battle 

His  long  plume  waved  proudly ; 

As  the  bolts  from  the  bowmen, 

Or  share  through  the  furrow, 

He  tore  through  the  foemen, 

Young  Hugh  of  Glenurra! 

v. 

Alas  ! when  we  parted 
That  morn  in  the  hollow, 

Why  staid  I faint-hearted, 

Why  ne’er  did  I follow, 

To  fight  by  his  side  there 
The  red  battle  thorough, 

Or  die  when  he  died  there, 

Young  Hugh  of  Glenurra? 

vi. 

Ah ! woe  is  me,  woe  is  me, 

Love  cannot  wake  him ; 

Woe  is  me,  woe  is  me, 

Grief  cannot  make  him 


388 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


% 


Quit  to  embrace  me ; 

This  red  couch  of  sorrow, 
Where  soon  they  shall  place  me 
By  Hugh  of  Glenurra ! 


THE  GREEN  FLAG. 


i. 

Prepare,  prepare,  with  silent  care, 

And  trust  to  words  no  longer, 

We’ve  had  enough  of  such  false  stuff, 

And  we  are  nought  the  stronger; 

Those  mountebanks  who  fill  their  ranks 
By  lying  all  in  chorus, 

Of  them  beware,  and  still  prepare 
For  the  Green  Flag  flying  o’er  us. 

ii. 

In  days  of  yore,  when  talkers  bore 
A sword,  like  men  of  valor, 

From  every  fight  they  led  the  flight 
With  base  and  coward  pallor; 

Such  worthless  men,  by  voice  and  pen, 

With  faction  cursed  and  tore  us ; 

We’ll  strike  them  dumb,  with  fife  and  drum, 
And  the  Green  Flag  flying  o’er  us. 

hi. 

Prepare,  prepare,  in  joy  or  care, 

To  fill  the  gap  of  danger, 

And  silent  force  will  run  its  course 
To  swamp  the  subtle  stranger ; 

Within  that  gap  our  chains  we’ll  snap, 

And  conquer  all  before  us, 

If  we  prepare  to  do  and  dare, 

With  the  Gre.en  Flag  flying  o’er  us. 

IV. 

In  other  days,  the  peasants’  gaze 
Drooped  slavish  down  to  no  man ; 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


889 


Unskilled  and  rude,  they  sank  in  blood 
Before  their  serried  foeman. 

Shall  we  like  those  confront  our  foes, 
Their  blood-red  tale  before  us  ? 

No ; we’ll  prepare,  then  do  and  dare, 
With  the  Green  Flag  flying  o’er  us. 

v. 

And  when  the  time  of  deeds  sublime 
Shall  light  the  way  before  us, 

With  patriot  wrath  we’ll  clear  our  path, 
And  free  the  land  that  bore  us ; 

The  nations  round  shall  hear  the  sound 
Of  our  triumphant  chorus 
Of  drum  and  fife,  in  Freedom’s  strife, 
With  the  Green  Flag  flying  o’er  us. 


THE  JOY-BELLS. 

Air — “ The  Bells  of  Barna.” 


I. 

Blithesome  is  our  marriage  morn, 
Blithesome  are  our  hearts  and  gay, 
Though  in  no  high  carriage  borne, 

Though  we’ve  neither  pomp  nor  sway; 
And  the  joy-bells’  constant  ringing 
Floats  upon  the  mountain  wind, 
Ringing,  ringing,  sweetly  bringing 
Many  a glad  thought  to  my  mind. 

O,  the  joy-bells  ! O,  the  joy-bells  ! 

Ringing,  ringing  sweet  and  clear, 
In  the  May-time  of  our  loving, 

And  the  May-tide  of  the  year. 

ii. 

This  small  chapel  by  the  mountain 
For  our  bridal ’s  fittest  place, 

With  its  fairy  thorn  and  fountain, 

And  its  old  familiar  face ; 


390 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


With  the  gray  priest  vested  meetly, 

Like  a saint  from  Heaven  above ; 
With  our  parents  smiling  sweetly 
On  our  fond  and  deathless  love. 

O,  the  joy-bells  ! O,  the  joy-bells ! 

Ringing,  ringing  sweet  and  clear, 
In  the  May-time  of  our  loving, 

And  the  May-tide  of  the  year. 

hi. 

Once  the  golden  Mi  na  Media  * 

With  its  sunny  hours  is  o’er, 

Grief  may  come,  but  joy  must  follow 
When  I pass  my  husband’s  door, 

For  my  Donall  loves  me  kindly, 

And  though  love  the  judgment  dim, 
’Twas  but  slow,  and  ’tis  not  blindly 
That  I gave  my  heart  to  him. 

O,  the  joy-bells  ! O,  the  joy-bells  ! 

Ringing,  ringing  sweet  and  clear, 
In  the  May-time  of  our  loving, 

And  the  May-tide  of  the  year. 


JOHNNY  DUNLEA. 

Air  — “ Johnny  Dunlea.” 


I. 

There’s  a tree  in  the  greenwood  I love  best  of  all,  — 
It  stands  by  the  side  of  Easmore’s  haunted  fall ; 

For  there  while  the  sunset  shone  bright  far  away, 

Last  I met  ’neath  its  branches  my  Johnny  Dunlea. 


ii. 

O,  to  see  his  fine  form  as  he  rode  down  the  hill, 
While  the  red  sunset  glowed  on  his  helmet  of  steel, 
With  his  broadsword  and  charger  so  gallant  and  gay, 
On  that  evening  of  woe  for  my  Johnny  Dunlea. 


The  Honeymoon. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


391 


III. 

He  stood  by  my  side,  and  the  love-smile  he  wore 
Still  brightens  my  heart,  though  ’twill  beam  nevermore ; 
’Twas  to  have  but  one  farewell,  then  speed  to  the  fray ; 
’Twas  a farewell  forever,  my  Johnny  Dunlea. 

IV. 

For  the  red  Saxon  soldiers  lay  hid  in  the  dell, 

And  burst  on  our  meeting  with  wild,  savage  yell ; 

But  their  leader’s  black  life-blood  I saw  that  sad  day, 
And  it  stained  the  good  sword  of  my  Johnny  Dunlea! 

v. 

My  curse  on  the  traitors,  my  curse  on  the  ball 
That  stretched  my  true  love  by  Easmore’s  haunted  fall; 
O,  the  blood  of  his  brave  heart  ebbed  quickly  away, 
And  he  died  in  my  arms  there,  my  Johnny  Dunlea! 


THE  JOLLY  COMPANIE. 

Air  — “ The  Jolly  Companies 


i. 

O,  we  are  jolly  soldiers. 

Of  courage  stout  and  true, 
Some  in  strife  grown  hoary, 

And  some  to  battle  new ; 
We’re  going  to  the  wars 
Beyond  the  Irish  sea, 

Our  green  flag  o’er  us  waving, 

A jolly  companie ! 

A jolly  companie ! 

A jolly  companie ! 

In  bivouac,  or  wild  attack, 

A jolly  companie ! 

ii. 

When  we  sailed  from  the  harbor, 
Our  hearts  were  sad  and  sore 
For  the  girls  we  left  behind  us 
Upon  the  Irish  shore  : 


892 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


Though  the  girls  in  France  are  fair, 
To  our  own  still  true  we’ll  be, 

As  we  fight  our  way  to  glory, 

A jolly  companie ! 

A jolly  companie ! 

A jolly  companie ! 

Around  the  can,  or  man  to  man, 
A jolly  companie ! 

hi. 

Here’s  a health  to  good  King  Louis, 
Our  friend  forevermore, 

And  a health  to  poor  High  Shamus,  — 
May  his  troubles  soon  be  o’er. 
Where’er  the  pike  we  trail, 

We’ll  smite  his  enemie 
To  the  tune  of  “ Fag  an  bealach,”  * 

A jolly  companie ! 

A jolly  companie ! 

A jolly  companie ! 

In  peace  or  fight,  by  day  or  night. 

A jolly  companie ! 

IV. 

When  we  look  upon  our  flag-staff, 

Of  the  hardy  Irish  oak, 

’Twill  remind  us  of  our  country, 

’Mid  the  battle’s  dust  and  smoke ; 

In  Danger’s  stormy  gap 
Our  gory  bed  may  be, 

But  we’ll  die  like  sons  of  Ireland, 

A jolly  companie ! 

A j olly  companie ! 

A jolly  companie ! 

In  bivouac  or  wild  attack, 

A jolly  companie ! 


* “ Fag  an  bealach,”  Clear  the  way. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


393 


THE  FIRST  NIGHT  I WAS  MARRIED.* 

Air  — “ The  first  Night  I was  married.” 


I. 

The  first  night  I was  married,  and  made  a happy  bride, 

The  captain  of  the  cavalry  he  came  to  my  bedside,  — 
k<  Arise,  arise,  new  married  man!  arise,  and  come  with  me, 

To  the  lowlands  of  Holland,  to  face  your  enemie ! 

ii. 

“ Holland  is  a pretty  place,  the  fairest  I have  seen, 

With  the  waysides  glittering  all  in  flowers,  the  fields  so  bright 
and  green; 

The  sunshine  lights  the  clustering  grapes,  the  vines  hang  from 
each  tree ; ” 

And  I scarce  had  time  to  look  about  when  my  love  was  gone 
from  me. 

hi. 

O,  weeping,  weeping  sorely,  I waste  each  day  and  night, 
Thinking  of  the  hours  I spent  with  my  own  heart’s  delight : 

My  curse  upon  the  cruel  wars  that  drove  him  o’er  the  sea, 

To  the  lowlands  of  Holland,  far,  far  away  from  me. 

IV. 

I built  my  love  a gallant  ship  to  bear  him  o’er  the  main, 

With  four-and-twenty  sailors  bold,  all  for  a fitting  train ; 

The  storm  came  down  upon  the  sea,  and  the  waves  began  to 
roar, 

And  dashed  my  love  and  his  gallant  ship  upon  the  Holland 
shore ! 

" Y. 

Says  the  mother  to  the  daughter,  “ What  makes  you  so  lament? 
Is  there  no  man  in  Ireland  to  please  your  discontent?” 

“ There  are  men  enough  in  Ireland,  but  none  at  all  for  me, 

For  I never  loved  but  one  young  man,  now  far  beyond  the  sea.” 

* From  the  fragments  of  an  old  ballad,  about  the  time  of  the  “ Wild 
Geese,”  or  recruits  for  the  Irish  brigade. 


394 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


VI. 

“ I’ll  build  my  love  another  ship,  and  give  its  sails  the  wind, 

And  search  among  the  bold  brigade  my  gallant  love  to  find ; 

I’ll  search  among  the  bold  brigade,  with  heart  full  fond  and 
fain, 

And  I’ll  bring  back  my  true-love  from  the  wild,  wild  wars 
again.” 


THE  NIGHT  BEFORE  FONTENOY;  OR,  THE 
GIRLS  WE  LEFT  BEHIND  US. 


i. 

The  watch-fire’s  light  falls  gayly  bright, 
Upon  our  harness  gleaming, 

And  long  we’ve  eyed  its  flame  to-night, 
O’er  mournful  memories  dreaming. 
Now  fill  each  glass,  and  raise  each  hand, 
And  pledge  the  loves  that  bind  us,  — 
A health  unto  our  native  land, 

And  the  girls  we  left  behind  us ! 


ii. 

We’ve  left  the  sickle  and  the  spade 
At  home  beyond  the  water, 

We’ve  come  to  learn  the  soldier’s  trade 
In  many  a field  of  slaughter ; 

And  soldiers  of  the  best  once  more 
The  Saxon  foe  shall  find  us,  — 

Then  a health  unto  our  native  shore, 

And  the  girls  we  left  behind  us ! 

hi. 

We’ve  drawn  the  sword  for  France’s  land, 
Our  knowledge  dearly  buying, 

But  we’ve  one  heart  and  we’ve  one  hand, 
And  we  have  faith  undying, 

That  with  that  sword  we’ll  break  the  rod 
Of  foes  at  home  that  grind  us,  — 

Then  a health  unto  our  native  sod, 

And  the  girls  we  left  behind  us  ! 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


395 


IV. 

Ah,  many  a girl  our  hearts  adore,  — 
Bright  Alice,  Kate,  or  Mary,  — 

From  Antrim’s  cliffs  and  Kerry’s  shore 
To  glens  of  green  Tipperary,  — 

Fair  maids  that  with  one  witching  smile 
Could  round  their  fingers  wind  us,  — 
Then  a health  unto  our  native  isle, 

And  the  girls  we  left  behind  us. 

v. 

Fill  high,  and  drink  their  health  to-night 
In  bumpers  brimming  over ; 

Some  glorious  day  in  fond  delight 
May  each  one  clasp  her  lover, 

When  side  by  side,  with  sword  in  hand, 
At  home  again  they’ll  find  us,  — 

Then  a health  unto  our  native  land, 

And  the  girls  we  left  behind  us ! 


VI. 

Fill  high  the  glass,  — the  watch-fire  light 
Will  soon  be  dimly  burning, 

And  some  of  us,  so  hale  to-night, 

May  lie  full  low  at  morning ; 

May  those  at  home  forevermore 
In  memory  fondly  mind  us, 

When  Freedom  gladdens  Ireland’s  shore, 
And  the  girls  we  left  behind  us ! 


FANNY. 

Air  — “ Green  Leaves,  so  green,  O ! ” 


Where  Anner  flows  by  fairy  wrath, 
And  tower,  and  gray  rocks  many, 
One  Sunday  noon,  in  woodland  path, 
I met  my  blithesome  Fanny. 


396 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHOBT  BALLADS. 


Her  hair  was  like  the  yellow  blooms 
That  deck  the  meadows  early ; 

Her  eyes  like  heaven,  when  spring  illumes, 
They  shone  so  kind  clearly. 

ii. 

We  sat  to  hear  the  river’s  tune 
’Neath  trees  all  mossed  and  olden, 

And  talked  and  laughed  that  autumn  noon, 
With  thoughts  full  sweet  and  golden;  — 

I built  a palace  in  my  brain, 

As  fond  I gazed  upon  her, 

And  in  its  bright  hall  she  did  reign, 

My  queen  of  love  and  honor. 

m. 

The  palace  towers  may  all  depart, 

And  cruel  Fate  may  sever, 

But  in  my  brain  and  in  my  heart 
Her  form  shall  live  forever ; — 

At  Beauty’s  shrine  the  worshippers 
Judge  fond,  and  rash,  and  blindly; 

Yet  ne’er  was  form  more  fair  than  hers, 
And  ne’er  beat  heart  more  kindly. 


THE  BRIGADE’S  HURLING  MATCH.* 

Air  — “ The  Game  played  in  Erinn  go  Bragh.” 


i. 

In  the  South’s  blooming  valleys  they  sing  and  they  play 
By  their  vine-shaded  cots  at  the  close  of  the  day : 

But  a game  like  our  own  the  Brigade  never  saw  — 

The  wild,  sweeping  hurlings  of  Erinn  go  Bragh. 

ii. 

Our  tents  they  were  pitched  upon  Lombardy’s  plain ; 

Ten  days  nigh  the  foeman  our  army  had  lain ; 

But  ne’er  through  his  towers  made  we  passage  or  flaw, 
Till  we  showed  them  the  game  played  in  Erinn  go  Bragh. 

* This  story  is  told  among  the  people  of  Cork  and  Limerick. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


397 


III. 

Our  sabres  were  sharp,  and  a forest  was  nigh ; 

There  our  hurleys  we  fashioned  ere  morning  rose  high ; 

With  the  goal-ball  young  Mahon  had  brought  from  Dunlawe, 
We  showed  them  the  game  played  in  Erinn  go  Bragh. 

IV. 

Our  captain  stood  out  with  the  ball  in  his  hand ; 

Our  colonel  he  gave  us  the  word  of  command ; 

Then  we  dashed  it  and  chased  it  o’er  esker  and  scragh, 

While  we  showed  them  the  game  played  in  Erinn  go  Bragh. 

y. 

The  enemy  stood  on  their  walls  high  and  strong, 

While  we  raced  it,  and  chased  it,  and  dashed  it  along ; 

And  they  opened  their  gates  as  we  nearer  did  draw, 

To  see  the  wild  game  played  in  Erinn  go  Bragh. 

VI. 

We  left  the  round  ball  in  its  roaring  career; 

We  turned  on  the  foe  with  a wild,  ringing  cheer; 

Ah ! they  ne’er  through  our  bright,  dauntless  stratagem  saw, 
While  we  showed  them  the  game  played  in  Erinn  go  Bragh! 

VII. 

Their  swords  clashed  around  us,  their  balls  raked  us  sore, 
But  with  hurleys  we  paid  them  in  hard  knocks  galore ; 

Eor  their  bullets  and  sabres  we  cared  ne’er  a straw, 

While  we  showed  them  the  game  played  in  Erinn  go  Bragh. 

VIII. 

The  fortress  is  taken  ! our  wild  shouts  arise  ; 

Eor  our  land  and  King  Louis  they  swell  to  the  skies. 

Ah ! he  laughed  as  he  told  us  a game  he  ne’er  saw, 

Like  the  wild,  sweeping  hurlings  of  Erinn  go  Bragh! 


398 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


ADIEU,  LOVELY  MARY. 

Air  — “ Adieu,  lovely  Mary.” 


I. 

“ Adieu,  lovely  Mary ; I’m  going  to  leave  you, 
And  to  the  West  Indies  my  sad  course  to  steer; 
I know  very  well  my  long  absence  will  grieve  you, 
But  I will  be  back  in  the  spring  of  the  year.” 


ii. 

The  May-fires  were  burning,  and  ships  were  returning, 
But  word  never  came  to  allay  her  sad  fear, 

And  sorely  and  sadly  young  Mary  sat  mourning 
The  loss  of  her  love  in  the  spring  of  the  year. 

hi. 

And  summer  thus  found  her,  and  wooers  came  round  her, 
Yet  deep  in  her  bosom  one  form  she  held  dear; 

She  answered  them,  weeping,  “ My  love  I am  keeping 
For  one  who’ll  be  back  in  the  spring  of  the  year.” 


IV. 

The  old  man  with  treasure,  the  young  man  with  pleasure, 
Still  courted  till  autumn  was  yellow  and  sear; 

No  fond  vows  were  broken,  the  same  words  were  spoken, 
“ My  love  will  be  back  in  the  spring  of  the  year.” 

v. 

Next  spring  flowers  were  shining,  and  Mary  sat  twining 
A wreath  of  their  blooms,  and  her  heart  was  not  drear; 
For  O,  with  love  glowing,  when  soft  winds  were  blowing, 
Her  true  love  came  back  in  the  spring  of  the  year ! 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


399 


I’M  FOURTEEN  YEARS  OLD  UPON  SUNDAY.*- 

Air  — “ As  I went  a walking.” 


I. 

Adown  by  the  Suir,  in  a May  morning’s  shine, 

I saw  a young  maiden  a milking  her  kine ; 

And  she  sang,  44  O,  my  bosom  no  more  shall  repine, 
For  I’m  fourteen  years  old  upon  Sunday, 

And  I shall  be  married  on  Sunday ! ” 

ii. 

4 4 0,  love  is  the  fondest  the  day  it  is  new, 

And  the  heart  is  a rover,  and  often  untrue ; 

And  will  he  be  fonder,  the  bridegroom  of  you, 

But  fourteen  years  old  upon  Sunday, 

And  after  your  wedding  on  Sunday  ? ” 

hi. 

44 1 know  him  too  truly,  my  brave  Conor  Lee ! 

His  mind  from  all  thoughts  of  a rover  is  free, 

And  I’m  sure  in  my  heart  he’ll  be  fonder  of  me, 

But  fourteen  years  old  upon  Sunday, 

And  after  our  wedding  on  Sunday. 

IY. 

44  On  Saturday  night  I’ll  be  void  of  all  care, 

With  my  new  bridal  dress,  and  the  flowers  in  my  hair, 
With  three  pretty  maidens  to  wait  on  me  there, 

And  to  dance  at  my  wedding  on  Sunday, 

For  I shall  be  married  on  Sunday.” 


* From  fragments  of  an  old  song. 


400 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


THE  LINNET. 


i. 

I’ve  found  a comrade,  fond  and  gay, 

A linnet  of  the  wildwood  tree ; 

We  hold  sweet  converse,  day  by  day, 

My  heart,  my  rambling  soul,  and  he. 

He  sits  upon  the  blossomed  spray, 

Within  the  hollow,  haunted  dell, 

And  every  song-note  seems  to  say 

That  wild  bird  knows  and  loves  me  well. 
Sweet  linnet,  sing  all  merrily 
Beside  the  glittering  streamlet’s  shore, 
Eor  love-bright  dreams  thou  bring’st  to  me 
Of  Rosaleen  forevermore. 


n. 

As  I lie  in  my  waking  dreams, 

And  dreamy  thoughts  successive  rise, 

Down  from  the  blooming  bough  he  seems 
To  look  on  me  with  human  eyes ; 

And  then  he  sings,  — ah,  such  a song 
Will  ne’er  be  heard  while  seasons  roll, 

Save  thy  dear  voice,  that  all  day  long 
In  memory  charms  my  heart  and  soul. 

Sweet  linnet,  still  sing  merrily 

Beside  the  haunted  streamlet’s  shore, 
Eor  many  a dream  thou  bring’st  to  me 
Of  Rosaleen  forevermore. 

hi. 

If  souls  e’er  visit  earth  again, 

With  one  my  little  friend’s  possessed ; 

Each  dulcet,  wild,  Elysian  strain 
Springs  so  divinely  from  his  breast. 

Those  fairy  songs,  that  earnest  look, 

Some  minstrel’s  sprite  it  sure  must  be,  — 
Anacreon’s  soul,  or  hers  who  took 
The  love-leap  by  the  Grecian  sea ! 

Sweet  linnet,  still  sing  merrily 

Beside  the  murmuring  streamlet’s  shore, 
Eor  happy  dreams  thou  bring’st  to  me 
Of  Rosaleen,  forevermore. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


401 


THE  SUMMER  IS  COME. 

Air — “ The  Summer  is  come.” 


I. 

The  summer  is  come,  and  the  grass  is  green, 

The  gay  flowers  spring  where  the  snows  have  been, 
The  ships  are  sailing  upon  the  sea, 

And  I’ll  soon  get  tidings  of  Gra  Machree. 


ii. 

O,  weary,  weary,  the  long,  dull  night; 

I think  and  think  of  my  heart’s  delight, 

And  in  my  dreamings  constantly  see 
The  stately  form  of  my  Gra  Machree. 

hi. 

The  birds  are  singing  from  brake  and  bough, 
And  sweetly,  sweetly  remind  me  now 
The  day  we  danced  by  the  village  tree, 
When  I won  the  heart  of  my  Gra  Machree. 


IV. 

I’m  sure,  I’m  sure,  while  the  sunbeams  glow, 
While  flowers  are  springing,  and  soft  winds  blow, 
The  white  ships  sailing  upon  the  sea 
Will  soon  bring  tidings  of  Gra  Machree. 

26 


402 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


OVER  THE  MORNING  DEW. 

Air  — “ As  truagh  gan  peata  vier  agum.” 


I. 

It  is  the  sweetest  hour  for  love  : 

The  sun  is  o’er  the  eastern  grove, 

And  nought  is  heard  but  coo  of  dove, 
And  wild  streams  in  the  greenwood. 
Over  the  morning  dew, 

Over  the  morning  dew, 

Come  with  me,  young  Gra  Machree, 
Unto  the  leafy  greenwood. 

ii. 

With  flowers  that  bloom  so  sweetly  there 
I’ll  deck  thy  dress  and  golden  hair, 

And  thou  hast  never  looked  so  fair 
As  then  in  that  wild  greenwood. 
Over  the  morning  dew, 

Over  the  morning  dew, 

Come  with  me,  young  Gra  Machree, 
Unto  the  leafy  greenwood. 

hi. 

There  rears  the  Rath  its  lonely  height, 
Where  fairies  dance  at  noon  of  night, 
And  there  my  faith  I’ll  fondly  plight 
To  thee  in  that  wild  greenwood. 

Over  the  morning  dew, 

Over  the  morning  dew, 

Come  with  me,  young  Gra  Machree, 

Unto  the  leafy  greenwood. 

IV. 

O,  fear  not  here  to  stray  with  me ; 

You  know  me  from  your  infancy : 

I’ll  ask  but  look  of  love  from  thee, 

And  fond  kiss  in  the  greenwood. 

Over  the  morning  dew, 

Over  the  morning  dew, 

Then  come  with  me,  young  Gra  Machree, 
Unto  the  leafy  greenwood. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


403 


THE  KNIGHT’S  LAY. 

i. 

As  I stray  on  my  gallant  steed  from  thee, 
By  river  and  mountain  hoar, 

O,  thou  dost  rise  before  mine  eyes, 

In  thy  loveliness  evermore ; 

And  evermore  as  I speed  to  thee 
From  tourney,  tilt,  or  fight, 

My  guerdon  sweet  in  thy  smiles  I meet, 
And  thy  love,  O,  my  lady  bright. 


ii. 

O,  lovely  is  the  eventide, 

And  the  sunset’s  purple  shine, 

But  as  I gaze  through  its  glorious  blaze, 

I see  but  thine  eyes  divine ; 

And  all  through  the  morning  heaven  wide, 
Whatever  shines  brightly  there, 

But  fills  my  breast  with  its  sweetest  guest, 
Thy  form,  O,  my  lady  fair. 

hi. 

As  we  camp  at  night  by  the  mountain  wood, 
I and  my  charger  free, 

The  night  bird’s  strain  but  brings  again 
Thy  words  of  love  to  me ; 

And  the  flowers  I see  by  the  fountain  flood 
In  the  spring-time  of  the  year, 

In  their  sheen  of  gold  I ever  behold 
Thy  bright  locks,  my  lady  dear. 

IV. 

The  scarf  thou  gavest  me  long  ago 
Sees  many  a gory  field, 

But  it  giveth  light  to  my  heart  at  night, 

As  I rest  on  my  dinted  shield. 

This  heart  must  be  leal  and  strong,  I trow, 
That  so  well  hath  toiled  ar\d  strove ; 

’Twas  hope  in  you  made  it  toil  so  true, 

So  long,  O,  my  lady  love. 


404 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


THE  BOYS  OF  WEXFORD.* 

Air  — “ The  Boys  of  Wexford.” 


I. 

In  comes  the  captain’s  daughter,  the  captain  of  the  Yeos, 

Saying,  “ Brave  United  man,  we’ll  ne’er  again  be  foes. 

A thousand  pounds  I’ll  give  you,  and  fly  from  home  with  thee, 
And  dress  myself  in  man’s  attire,  and  fight  for  libertie.” 

We  are  the  boys  of  Wexford,  who  fought  with  heart  and 
hand 

To  burst  in  twain  the  galling  chain,  and  free  our  native 
land. 


ii. 

And  when  we  left  our  cabins,  boys,  we  left  with  right  good  will, 
To  see  our  friends  and  neighbors  that  were  at  Vinegar  Hill ; 

A young  man  from  our  ranks  a cannon  he  let  go ; 

He  slapped  it  into  Lord  Mountjoy  — a tyrant  he  laid  low. 

We  are  the  boys  of  Wexford,  who  fought  with  heart  and 
hand 

To  burst  in  twain  the  galling  chain,  and  free  our  native 
land. 

hi. 

We  bravely  fought  and  conquered  at  Ross  and  Wexford  town, 
And  if  we  failed  to  keep  them,  ’twas  drink  that  brought  us  down. 
We  had  no  drink  beside  us  on  Tubber’neering’s  day, 

Depending  on  the  long,  bright  pike,  and  well  it  worked  its  way. 

We  are  the  boys  of  Wexford,  who  fought  with  heart  and 
hand 

To  burst  in  twain  the  galling  chain,  and  free  our  native 
land. 


IV. 

They  came  into  the  country,  our  blood  to  waste  and  spill, 

But  let  them  weep  for  Wexford,  and  think  of  Oulart  Hill. 
’Twas  drink  that  still  betrayed  us,  — of  them  we  had  no  fear, 
For  every  man  could  do  his  part,  like  Forth  and  Shelmalier. 

* Two  verses  of  an  old  song  are  incorporated  in  this. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS.  405 

We  are  the  boys  of  Wexford,  who  fought  with  heart  and 
hand 

To  burst  in  twain  the  galling  chain,  and  free  our  native 
land. 


Y. 

My  curse  upon  all  drinking,  — it  made  our  hearts  full  sore,  — 
For  bravery  won  each  battle,  but  drink  lost  evermore ; 

And  if  for  want  of  leaders  we  lost  at  Vinegar  Hill, 

We’re  ready  for  another  fight,  and  love  our  country  still. 

We  are  the  boys  of  Wexford,  who  fought  with  heart  and 
hand 

To  burst  in  twain  the  galling  chain,  and  free  our  native 
land. 


SWEET  GLENGARIFF’S  WATER. 

Air  — “ As  I was  riding  out  one  Day.” 


Where  wild  fowl  swim  upon  the  lake 
At  morning’s  early  shining, 

I’m  sure,  I’m  sure  my  heart  will  break 
With  sadness  and  repining. 

As  I went  out  one  morning  sweet, 

I met  a farmer’s  daughter, 

With  gown  of  blue,  and  milk-white  feet, 
By  sweet  Glengariff’s  water. 


ii. 

Her  jet  black  locks,  with  wavy  shine, 
Fell  sweetly  on  her  shoulder, 

And,  ah ! they  make  my  heart  repine 
Till  I again  hehold  her. 

She  smiled,  and  passed  me  strangely  by, 
Though  fondly  I besought  her, 

And  long  I’ll  rue  her  laughing  eye 
By  sweet  GlengarifF’s  water. 


406 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


III. 

Where  wild  fowl  swim  upon  the  lake 
At  morning’s  early  splendor, 

Each  day  my  lonely  path  I’ll  take, 
With  thoughts  full  sad  and  tender ; 
I’ll  meet  my  love,  and  sure  she’ll  stay 
To  hear  the  tale  I’ve  brought  her, 
To  marry  me  this  merry  May 
By  sweet  GlengarifF’s  water. 


THE  FAITHFUL  LOVERS. 

Air  — “ Along  with  my  Love  I’ll  go.” 


i. 

“ O’er  wildwood,  hill,  and  valley 
Sound  the  piercing  pipe  and  drum ; 
On  the  shore  our  kinsmen  rally, 

And  our  parting  hour  is  come.” 

“ O,  love,  we’ll  ne’er  be  parted,  — 

Side  by  side  against  the  foe 
You  and  I will  stand  true-hearted, 

And  along  with  my  love  I’ll  go.” 

ii. 

“The  steel-cap  will  dim  the  brightness 
Of  your  golden,  curling  hair; 

The  sword-hilt  will  spoil  the  whiteness 
Of  your  hand  so  small  and  fair.” 

“ I mind  not  these  long  locks  twining, 

I heed  not  this  white  hand’s  snow, 
And  where’er  our  flag  is  shining, 

Along  with  my  love  I’ll  go.” 

hi. 

“ The  roads  they  are  rough  and  dreary; 

They  will  scar  your  milk-white  feet ; 
If  you  go  on  our  marches  weary, 

You  must  lie  in  the  open  street.” 

“ No  danger  can  confound  me  ; 

Through  sunshine  or  wintry  snow, 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS.  407 

With  my  horseman’s  cloak  around  me, 

Along  with  my  love  I’ll  go.” 

IV. 

44  On  your  sleep  the  battle’s  warning 
Shall  the  pipes  and  trumpets  bray ; 

Woman’s  fear  and  pity  scorning, 

You  must  rush  to  the  gory  fray.” 

44  By  your  side  no  coward  pallor 
This  dauntless  brow  shall  know ; 

Through  the  fray,  with  a soldier’s  valor, 

Along  with  my  love  I’ll  go.” 

v. 

4 4 In  the  fight,  the  foe  prevailing, 

May  strike  us  ruthless  down ; 

Can  you  look  on  death  unquailing, 

* On  red  field  and  blazing  town?  ” 

44  In  the  fight,  when  death  has  found  me, 

Fear  nor  pain  my  heart  shall  know ; 

To  the  grave,  with  your  arms  around  me, 

Along  with  my  love  I’ll  go.” 

VI. 

The  battle  trumpet  sounded 
By  Shannon’s  gory  strand ; 

They  fell,  by  foes  surrounded, 

Side  by  side,  for  their  native  land. 

In  her  eyes  shone  love  immortal, 

As  his  blood  stained  her  breast  of  snow, 

And  she  cried,  44  Through  Death’s  dark  portal 
Along  with  my  love  I’ll  go.” 

VII. 

And  there  in  death  together 
They  sleep  since  that  battle-day ; 

O’er  their  grave  blooms  the  purple  heather, 

With  many  a floweret  gay ; 

O,  fair  maids,  when  ’gainst  the  stranger 
For  Ireland  we  strike  the  blow, 

May  you  cry,  44  Through  death  and  danger 
Along  with  my  love  I’ll  go.”  * 

* The  incident  of  this  little  ballad  is  historical.  The  lovers  fell,  as  re- 
lated, at  the  battle  of  Ballintubber.  See  Annals  of  the  Pour  Masters, 
about  the  year  1050. 


408 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


AMONG  THE  FRAGRANT  HAY. 

Air— Young  Roger  was  a Ploughboy.” 


I. 

Young  Johnnie,  in  the  autumn, 

To  Limerick  he  came, 

And  none  could  tell  what  brought  him, 

And  none  could  tell  his  name  ; 

But  he  sat  by  Bessie  Gray, 

That  sunny  autumn  day, 

And  he  told  her  sweet  romances  ’mid  the  new-mown  hay. 
Then  O,  for  fields  lighted 
By  sweet  autumn’s  ray, 

When  loving  vows  are  plighted 
Among  the  fragrant  hay. 

ii. 

When,  ere  the  next  sweet  morning, 

Yroung  Johnnie  had  fled, 

With  envy  filled  and  scorning, 

The  village  maidens  said,  — 

O,  they  spoke  of  Bessie  Gray, 

And  they  said  she’d  rue  the  day 
When  she  heard  the  sweet  romances  ’mid  the  new-mown 
Then  O,  for  fields  lighted 
By  sweet  autumn’s  ray, 

When  loving  vows  are  plighted 
Among  the  fragrant  hay. 

hi. 

Young  Johnnie’s  happy  dwelling 
Lay  fast  by  the  Lee, 

And  in  manly  parts  excelling, 

But  few  like  him  you’d  see ; 

And  so  thought  Bessie  Gray 
Since  that  lovely  autumn  day 
When  she  heard  the  sweet  romances  ’mid  the  new-mown 
Then  O,  for  fields  lighted 
By  sweet  autumn’s  ray, 

When  loving  vows  are  plighted 
Among  the  fragrant  hay. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS.  409 


IV. 

Young  Johnnie  could  remember 
His  vows  and  liis  flame ; 

He  came  in  dark  December, 

And  told  his  kin  and  name ; 

And  there  was  a wedding  gay, 

And  the  bride  was  Bessie  Gray, 

And  all  from  these  romances  ’mid  the  new-mown  hay. 
Then  O,  for  fields  lighted 
By  sweet  autumn’s  ray, 

When  loving  vows  are  plighted 
Among  the  fragrant  hay. 


THE  SADDEST  BREEZE. 

Air  — “ Johnnie,  lovely  Johnnie.” 


I. 

The  saddest  breeze  in  all  the  land, 

It  blew  across  the  sea : 

It  drove  a brave  ship  from  the  strand, 
And  bore  my  Hugh  from  me ; 

And  long  I sat  beside  the  rill 
To  weep  my  fate  alone, 

Till  leaf  and  flower  from  wood  and  hill 
With  summer  beams  were  flown. 


ii. 

The  gladdest  breeze  e’er  swept  the  vales 
To-day  blew  from  the  sea ; 

It  swelled  a good  ship’s  snowy  sails, 
And  brought  him  back  to  me ; 

And  now  ’tis  rushing  wildly  past, 

With  wintry  sleet  and  rain, 

Yet  e’en  I love  the  cold,  cold  blast 
That  brought  my  Hugh  again. 


410 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


ALMANSA;  OR,  O’MAHONY’S  DRAGOONS. 

Air  — “ The  Bold  Dragoon.” 

I. 

Brave  comrades  of  the  sword, 

Sing  with  me  Almansa’s  day, 

How  fought  our  bold  dragoons 

Through  that  fierce  and  fiery  fray, 

And  how  they  won  to  deathless  fame, 

Old  Ireland’s  chivalry, 

Our  dashing,  bold  dragoons,  with  their  long  swords  flashing, 
And  their  bridles  flowing  free. 


ii. 

When  the  sunset  light  fell  red 
On  that  battle’s  trampled  ground, 

On  our  front  the  flam  of  drums, 

Mingled  with  the  trumpet’s  sound ; 

And  thither  rolled  the  English  line, 

Horse,  foot,  artillery, 

To  surround  us  bold  dragoons  with  our  long  swords  flashing, 
And  our  bridles  flowing  free. 

hi. 

As  nearer  and  more  near 

The  threatening  foemen  came, 

Their  flanks  all  rolling  smoke, 

Their  front  all  fire  and  flame, 

Loud  spoke  our  colonel’s  trumpet, 

“ Boot  to  boot  and  knee  to  knee  ! 

Forward ! Charge ! my  bold  dragoons,  with  your  long  swords 
flashing, 

And  your  bridles  flowing  free  ! ” 

IV. 

Then  each  charger  shook  his  mane, 

From  the  scabbard  flew  each  brand, 

And  our  country’s  name  and  fame 
Nerved  each  gallant  rider’s  hand, 

And  like  the  deafening  thunder  clap 
That  roars  down  Barnagee, 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


411 


Sped  we  forward,  bold  dragoons,  with  our  long  swords  flashing, 
And  our  bridles  flowing  free. 

v. 

Through  the  fire  and  through  the  smoke, 

Through  the  bayonets  and  spears, 

Through  their  serried  ranks  of  foot, 

And  their  plumed  cavaliers, 

As  a boar-hunt  through  a meadow, 

One  wild  hurricane  went  we, 

Brave  O’Maliony’s  dragoons,  with  our  long  swords  flashing, 
And  our  bridles  flowing  free. 


VI. 

Then  we  wheeled  unto  the  right, 

And  fell  thundering  on  their  flank, 

Till  we  reached  the  crimsoned  sward, 

Where  our  gallant  major  sank,* 

And  we  heard  his  voice  of  valor 
As  he  died  in  victory, 

“ Well  done,  my  bold  dragoons,  with  your  long  swords  flashing, 
And  your  bridles  flowing  free  ! ” 

VII. 

When  the  trumpet’s  loud  recall 
To  our  ears  its  cadence  bore, 

Sword  and  saddle,  rein  and  plume, 

Horse  and  man,  were  wet  with  gore : 

Yet  we  mourned  full  many  a comrade,. 

Many  an  empty  saddle-tree, 

We,  O’Mahony’s  dragoons,  with  our  long  swords  flashing, 

And  our  bridles  flowing  free. 

VIII. 

Come  all  ye  soldiers  true, 

Who  bear  the  belt  and  brand, 

Here’s  to  those,  the  Brave  who  died, 

Here’s  the  memory  of  our  land. 

A field  of  fame  like  this  some  day 
In  Ireland  may  we  see, 

To  charge  like  bold  dragoons,  with  our  long  swords  flashing, 
And  our  bridles  flowing  free. 

* The  gallant  Philip  O’Dwyer,  aid-major  of  the  regiment,  a cousin  of 

O’Dwyer,  the  banished  earl  of  Kilnemanagh,  in  Tipperary. 


412 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHOUT  BALLADS. 


MY  LOVE  IS  AT  MY  SIDE. 

Air  — “ I once  loved  a Boy.” 


I. 

The  lone  hill’s  dells  are  blue  with  heather  bells. 

The  wild  flowers  bloom  along  the  moor, 

The  soft  winds  glide,  and  my  love  is  at  my  side, 

On  the  banks  of  the  calm,  golden  Suir, 

Bright  and  pure, 

On  the  banks  of  the  calm,  golden  Suir. 

ii. 

By  upland  springs  a lonely  linnet  sings 
All  of  love  from  his  leafy  wildwood  tree, 

Of  smiles  and  sweet  sighs,  and  the  loving,  star-bright  eyes 
That  are  gazing  so  fond  now  on  me, 

Trustingly, 

That  are  gazing  so  fond  now  on  me. 

hi. 

The  soft  airs  blow,  and  wildly  wandering  go 
To  tell  where  the  woodlark  builds  its  nest, 

Of  bliss  that  knows  no  care,  and  the  maiden  young  and  fair, 
That  I’m  clasping  so  fond  to  my  breast, 

. Dearly  pressed, 

That  I’m  clasping  so  fond  to  my  breast, 


IY. 

O,  bright  flow  the  rills,  and  this  river  by  the  hills, 

Telling,  telling  as  they  go  to  mount  and  moor, 

That  my  love’s  at  my  side,  that  she’ll  be  my  own  dear  bride, 
On  the  banks  of  the  calm,  golden  Suir, 

Bright  and  pure, 

On  the  banks  of  the  calm,  golden  Suir. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


418 


WHERE  ARE  YOU  GOING,  MY  PRETTY  MAID? 

Air  — “ Tha  na  la.” 


“ Where  are  you  going,  my  pretty  maid, 

While  heather  bells  the  mountains  cover  ?” 
“I’m  going  to  Dalian  Green,”  she  said, 

“ To  dance  a reel,  and  meet  my  lover. 

Hi,  ho  ho ! while  sunbeams  glow, 

We’ll  banish  care  and  worship  pleasure; 
Hi,  ho,  ho ! with  heel  and  toe, 

On  Dalian  Green  we’ll  dance  a measure.” 


ii. 

“ And  who  is  he  has  made  you  feel 
Within  your  heart  a love  undying?” 

“ A soldier  in  his  jack  of  steel, 

With  jangling  spurs,  and  green  plume  flying. 
Hi,  ho,  ho  ! while  sunbeams  glow, 

And  gild  the  flower,  and  brown  the  berry, 
Hi,  ho,  ho ! with  heel  and  toe 

We’ll  foot  it  round  in  laughter  merry.” 

hi. 

“And  does  he  fight  for  English  sway, 

Or  for  the  brave  old  land  that  bore  him  ? ” 

“ My  pride,  my  love  rides  through  the  fray 
With  Ireland’s  green  flag  floating  o’er  him. 

Hi,  ho,  ho ! while  sunbeams  glow, 

His  maid  returns  the  love  he  brought  her*, 
Hi,  ho,  ho ! with  heel  and  toe 

We’ll  foot  it  round  by  Dalian  Water.” 


IV. 

“And  why  do  you  love  him,  gentle  maid, 

For  love  and  war  bring  woe  and  danger?  ” 

“ For  he  loves  me,  and  for  the  blade 
He  draws  against  the  Saxon  stranger ; 

Hi,  ho,  ho ! while  sunbeams  glow, 

We’ll  taste  the  joy,  though  Love’s  the  giver; 


414 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


Hi,  ho,  ho ! with  heel  and  toe 

We’ll  foot  it  round  by  Dalian  river.” 


v. 

“ Good  men,  fair  maid,  have  lived  and  died, 
Although  the  foreign  laws  have  bound  them.” 
u They’re  slaves,  not  men,”  she  proud  replied, 
“Who  wear  the  Saxon  chains  around  them! 
Hi,  ho,  ho ! while  sunbeams  glow, 

I care  not  for  such  slaves  a feather. 

Hi,  ho,  ho  ! with  heel  and  toe 

We’ll  foot  it  round  and  round  together.” 

VI. 

“ And  when,  fair  maid,  in  wedlock’s  band 
Will  he  and  you  hear  joy-bells  ringing?  ” 

She  tossed  her  head,  she  kissed  her  hand, 

And  vanished  down  the  woodland,  singing : 
“Hi,  ho,  ho!  while  sunbeams  glow, 

We’ll  banish  care,  and  worship  pleasure; 
Hi,  ho,  ho  ! with  heel  and  toe 

On  Dalian  Green  we’ll  dance  a measure.” 


SONG  OF  GALLOPING  O’HOGAN. 

Air  — “ He  thought  of  the  Charmer.” 


i. 

Hurrah,  boys,  hurrah ! for  the  sword  by  my  side, 
The  spur  and  the  gallop  o’er  bogs  deep  and  wide ; 
Hurrah  for  the  helmet  and  shining  steel  jack, 

The  sight  of  the  spoil,  and  good  men  at  my  back ! 
And  we’ll  sack  and  burn  for  king  and  sireland, 
And  chase  the  black  foe  from  ould  Ireland. 

ii. 

At  the  wave  of  my  sword  start  a thousand  good  men, 
And  we  ride  like  the  blast  over  moorland  and  glen; 
Like  dead  leaves  of  winter,  in  ruin  and  wrath 
We  sweep  the  red  Saxons  away  from  our  path, 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


415 


And  we’ll  sack  and  burn  for  king  and  sireland, 

And  chase  the  black  foe  from  ould  Ireland. 

hi. 

The  herds  of  the  foe  graze  at  noon  by  the  rills : 

We  have  them  at  night  in  our  camp  ’mid  the  hills  : 

His  towns  lie  in  peace  at  the  eve  of  the  night, 

But  they’re  sacked  and  in  flames  ere  the  next  morning  light ; 
And  we’ll  sack  and  burn  for  king  and  sireland, 

And  chase  the  black  foe  from  ould  Ireland. 


IV. 

And  so  we  go  riding  by  night  and  by  day, 

And  fight  for  our  country  and  all  the  rich  prey  ;• 
The  roar  of  the  battle  sweet  music  we  feel, 

And  the  light  of  our  hearts  is  the  flashin’  of  steel. 
And  we’ll  sack  and  burn  for  king  and  sireland, 
And  chase  the  black  foe  from  ould  Ireland. 


THE  LABORER. 

Air — “ Granua  weal.” 

I. 

I labor  and  sweat  for  the  poor  shilling  fee 

Through  the  days  of  my  manhood,  but  what’s  that  to  me  ? 

When  age  steals  upon  me,  I’m  left  in  the  lurch, 

Fallen,  wretched,  and  poor  as  a mouse  in  a church ; 

Then  the  laws  must  be  rotten  — the  de’il  in  the  sham 
Of  state-craft  that  leaves  me  to-day  what  I am. 


ii. 

If  I make  of  the  desert  a fair,  smiling  land 

By  the  sweat  of  my  brow  and  the  strength  of  my  hand, 

Then  the  rent  it  is  raised,  or  my  cabin  and  all 

That  I’ve  built,  and  I’ve  planned,  by  the  crowbar  must  fall. 

For  the  laws  they  are  rotten  — the  de’il  in  the  sham 

Of  state-craft  that  leaves  me  to-day  what  I am. 


416 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


III. 

The  rich  they  are  made  of  the  fine  porcelain  clay, 

And  I of  the  turf-mould,  plebeian,  they  say ; 

But  the  tall,  graceful  frame,  and  the  clear,  flashing  eye 
Of  the  poor  Irish  toiler  will  fling  back  the  lie. 

’Tis  the  laws  that  are  rotten  — the  de’il  in  the  sham 
Of  state-craft  that  leaves  me  to-day  what  I am. 

IV. 

A little  bird  sang  in  my  ear  one  fine  morn, 

“Poor  toiler,  arise  from  thy  bondage  forlorn; 

You’re  the  tree  whose  rich  fruit  makes  the  wealth  of  the 
great,  — 

You’re  .the  strong,  sturdy  pillar  that  props  up  the  state.” 
So  the  laws  must  be  rotten  — the  de’il  in  the  sham 
Of  state-craft  that  leaves  me  to-day  what  I am. 

v. 

Then  I’ll  look  to  myself  for  the  remedy  true, 

And  over  old  Ireland,  strong  brothers,  to  you; 

For  while  cursed  by  dissension,  in  bondage  we  groan, 
But  when  banded  together,  the  st^te  is  our  own. 

Yes,  I’ll  look  to  myself,  for  the  de’il’s  in  the  sham 
Of  state-craft  that  leaves  me  to-day  what  I am. 


PATRICK’S  DAY. 


i. 

We  cannot  be  glad  : lonely  exiles,  we  borrow 

From  pomp  and  parade  but  the  semblance  of  glee ; 

W e cannot  be  glad  while  in  serfdom  and  sorrow 
Our  brothers  are  pining  beyond  the  sea  : 

Though  gallant  and  proud, 

Our  heads  shall  be  bowed, 

When  we  think,  mother  Ireland,  of  them  and  of  thee. 
Though  flaunting  on  high, 

Our  banners  may  fly, 

Though  the  trumpets  may  blare,  and  the  drums  roll  and 
rattle, 

And  rifles  and  bayonets  flash  bright  in  the  ray, 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS.  417 

They  make  us  but  sigh  for  one  good  hour  of  battle 
On  green  Irish  ground  upon  Patrick’s  Day. 


ii. 

We  cannot  be  glad,  though  the  pageant’s  shrill  clangor 
From  street  unto  street  fill  the  blue  heaven’s  dome ; 

We  cannot  be  glad,  but  the  sounds  of  our  anger 
Shall  be  heard  far  away  o’er  the  wild  sea’s  foam ; 

Shall  be  heard  far  away 
By  the  tyrants  whose  sway 
Is  the  curse  of  our  race,  and  our  green  island  home ! 
Be  heard  rising  clear 
By  the  despots  whose  fear 
Will  make  them  imagine  our  rifles  and  cannon 
Are  over  the  water  beginning  the  fray, 

That  the  people  have  risen,  from  Bann  to  the  Shannon, 
To  try  their  new  strength  upon  Patrick’s  Day. 

hi. 

We  cannot  be  glad,  but  the  brave  hope  we  cherish 
Of  raising  the  green  flag  afar  o’er  the  main ; 

That  the  power  of  the  tyrant  before  us  shall  perish, 
Assuages  our  sorrow  and  soothes  our  pain. 

So  our  trumpets  shall  sound 
All  the  wide  world  round, 

With  the  bold  voice  of  Freedom  inwrought  in  the  strain, 
And  our  banners  shall  gleam 
In  each  foreign  sun’s  beam, 

Till,  sons  of  one  mother,  we’re  banded  together, 

With  weapons  all  glittering  in  warlike  array, 

Till  we  fight  the  good  fight  on  our  own  native  heather, 
And  win  back  our  freedom  on  Patrick’s  Day. 

27 


418 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


THERE  IS  A STREAM. 

Air  — “ As  I was  riding  out  one  Day.” 


i. 

There  is  a stream  ’mid  Houra’s  dells 
That  dances  downward  fleetly, 

That  mirrors  rocks  and  heather-bells, 

And  sings  by  wild  woods  sweetly, 

With  drooping  birch  and  drinan  dhun* 

Its  vernal  banks  adorning, 

And  there  my  love  with  sweet  smiles  won 
My  fond  heart  in  the  morning. 


ii. 

God  bless  the  May  that  brought  to  me 
The  love  that  nought  can  sunder ; 

God  bless  the  odorous  drinan  tree 
That  we  sat  fondly  under. 

The  skies  were  blue,  the  clouds  were  bright, 
The  valleys  shade  and  splendor, 

And  Annie’s  eyes  were  filled  with  light 
Of  love,  all  true  and  tender. 

hi. 

And  oft  within  that  valley  lone 
We  met  on  May-days  after, 

While  aye  the  stream  went  murmuring  on 
With  sounds  like  fairy  laughter; 

Tis  there  a rill,  but  far  below 
It  winds,  a calm,  bright  river; 

And  thus  may  our  love  forward  go, 
Increasing  on  forever. 


* The  blackthorn  or  sloe  tree. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


419 


SAINT  STEPHEN’S  NIGHT. 


i. 

Without,  the  wild  winds  keenly  blow 
O’er  weary  wastes  of  wintry  snow ; 

Within,  the  red  fire  sheds  its  glow, 

Where  round  and  round  the  dancers  go ! 

Merrily,  merrily  round  and  round, 

Airily,  airily  round  and  round, 

To  the  sweetest  music  in  Ireland’s  ground, 

The  heart’s  glad  laugh  and  the  bagpipe’s  sound. 


ii. 

What  befits  Saint  Stephen’s  Night 
But  loving  words  and  glances  bright,  — 

But  young  and  old,  with  main  and  might, 

To  dance  around  in  wild  delight  ? 

Merrily,  merrily  round  and  round, 

Airily,  airily  round  and  round, 

To  the  sweetest  music  in  Ireland’s  ground, 

The  heart’s  glad  laugh  and  the  bagpipe’s  sound! 

hi. 

The  wren  was  hunted  all  the  day 

By  the  striplings  tall  and  the  children  gay ; 

Now  he’s  dressed  in  state  on  the  holly  spray, 

And  his  noisy  captors,  where  are  they  ? 

Evincing,  dancing  round  and  round,  • 

Airily,  airily  round  and  round, 

To  the  sweetest  music  in  Ireland’s  ground, 

The  heart’s  glad  laugh  and  the  bagpipe’s  sound ! 


IV. 

Maid  and  matron,  son  and  sire, 

With  bounding  spirits  that  cannot  tire, 

Around  the  bright  Saint  Stephen’s  fire 
Joke  and  dance  to  their  heart’s  desire, 

Merrily,  merrily  round  and  round, 

Airily,  airily  round  and  round, 

To  the  sweetest  music  in  Ireland’s  ground, 

The  heart’s  glad  laugh  and  the  bagpipe’s  sound ! 


420 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


v. 

Round  and  round  so  merrilie, 

Yet  merrier  yet  that  dance  would  be 
If  our  scattered  brothers  beyond  the  sea 
Were  home  returned  and  Ireland  free  ! 

O,  merrily  then  we’d  dance  it  round, 

Saint  Stephen’s  night,  around  and  round, 

To  the  sweetest  music  in  Ireland’s  ground, 

The  heart’s  glad  laugh  and  the  bagpipe’s  sound ! 


LIFE  IS  BRIGHT. 


DUET. 

Air  — “ Her  Shoes  were  black,  her  Stockings  white.” 

i. 

(He.)  With  heart  full  light,  in  summer  bright, 

Or  winter’s  stormy  weather, 

With  rein  in  hand,  with  belt  and  brand, 

And  trooper’s  jack  and  feather, 

A soldier  gay,  I ride  away, 

Across  my  native  heather, 

Singing : 

(Both.)  Life  is  bright  when  hearts  unite, 

And  marriage  bells  are  ringing ! 

. «• 

(She.)  When  morning’s  beam  is  on  the  stream, 

And  the  perfumed  zephyrs  blowing, 

And  sheep-bells  ring  and  milkmaids  sing 
In  the  dells  where  kine  are  lowing, 

I sit  an  ear  the  streamlet  clear, 

My  thoughts  on  you,  love,  flowing, 
Singing : 

(Both.)  Life  is  bright  when  hearts  unite, 

And  marriage  bells  are  ringing ! 

hi. 

(He.)  In  hall  and  bower,  where  ladies’  power 
Cleaves  the  soldier’s  heart  asunder, 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


Or  where  beams  glance  from  sword  and  lance, 
And  the  cannons  roar  like  thunder, 

This  jack  of  steel,  a heart  full  leal 
To  thee,  fair  maid,  beats  under, 

Singing : 

(Both,')  Life  is  bright  when  hearts  unite, 

And  marriage  bells  are  ringing ! 

IV. 

(She.)  When,  far  from  me,  you  wander  free, 

I ever  think  of  you,  love ; 

Your  smile  so  warm,  your  gallant  form 
In  constant  dreams  I view,  love ; 

Where’er  you  go,  in  weal  or  woe, 

You  are  my  only  true-love  ! 

Singing : 

(Both.)  Life  is  bright  when  hearts  unite, 

And  marriage  bells  are  ringing ! 

v. 

(Both.)  When  hearts  entwine,  like  yours  and  mine, 
No  power  their  bonds  can  sever; 

Through  joy’s  gay  light,  misfortune’s  blight, 
Or  envy’s  false  endeavor, 

Our  love’s  bright  flame  shall  burn  the  same, 
Calm,  warm,  and  true  forever! 

Singing : 

Life  is  bright  when  hearts  unite, 

And  marriage  bells  are  ringing ! 


422 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


O,  BLEST  BE  THE  BOWER. 

Air— “The  Sliandhina.” 


I. 

O,  blest  be  the  bower  where  we  sat  all  alone,  love, 

Where  the  stream  murmured  down  with  a wild,  fairy  tone,  love ; 
Where  I looked  in  your  eyes,  that  so  tenderly  shone,  love, 

And  kissed  you  so  fondly,  and  called  you  my  own,  love! 

How  white  shone  that  bower  with  the  hawthorn  blossom, 

Like  the  sheen  of  your  brow  and  the  snow  of  your  bosom,  — 
How  sweet  sang  the  wild-birds  from  brake  and  from  tree,  love, 
But  the  fond  tale  you  told  me  was  sweeter  to  me,  love ! 

ii. 

On  harebells  at  morning  the  dewdrops  shine  clearly, 

And  fair  is  the  blush  of  the  wood-roses  early,  — 

Like  dew  on  those  harebells  your  sunny  eyes  shine,  love, 

And  your  cheek’s  like  the  blush  of  the  roses  divine,  love ; 

Your  form  is  as  fair  as  the  ash  by  the  mountain, 

Your  heart  is  as  pure  as  the  waves  of  the  fountain, 

And  light  as  the  breezes  that  sunny  hills  range,  love, 

Yet  true  as  the  pole-star  that  never  can  change,  love. 

hi. 

I wake  in  the  morning  from  fair  dreams  of  you,  love, 

I walk  in  the  noontide,  and  think  of  you  too,  love ; 

I sit  in  the  evening  by  mountain  or  river, 

And  my  soul  with  your  form  is  illumined  forever ! 

I look  on  each  beauty  the  summer  has  brought  us, 

I gaze  on  each  glory  that  nature  has  wrought  us ; 

But  the  splendor  of  earth  or  the  heaven’s  sunny  hue,  love, 

Was  dreary,  and  cheerless,  and  dark  without  you,  love! 

Then  blest  be  the  bower  where  we  sat  all  alone,  love, 
Where  the  stream  murmured  down  with  a wild,  fairy 
tone,  love, 

When  I looked  in  your  eyes  that  so  witchingly  shone, 
love, 

And  kissed  you  so  fondly,  and  called  you  my  own,  love. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


423 


BY  THE  SHORE. 

Air  — “ Mo  Wokir  tre  Volla  gan  gouglum.” 

I. 

Full  oft  in  the  morn  I look  sunward, 

An  exile’s  sad  look  o’er  the  brine, 

With  the  hopes  of  my  heart  trooping  onward 
To  thy  mountains,  O,  dear  land  of  mine ; 
And  a vision  I see  brightly  gleaming, 

In  glory  the  blue  billows  o’er, 

Thy  green  flag  of  splendor  outstreaming, 
And  thy  war-harness  glittering  once  more. 


ii. 

I list  to  thy  drum-roll  defiant, 

As  its  thunder  sounds  loud  through  the  hills, 
From  the  rock-pillared  Pass  of  the  Giant 
To  the  farthest  of  Desmond’s  wild  hills ; 

And  I see  the  white  camps  of  thy  valor 
Shine  bravely  by  mountain  and  plain, 

And  the  tyrant  crouch  down  in  his  pallor 
’Neath  the  sword  of  thine  anger  again ! 

iii. 

On  thy  great  day  of  need  and  commotion, 

When  thy  broad  flag  of  battle  out-waves, 

At  the  sword-point  we’ll  prove  our  devotion, 

Fair  land  of  our  forefathers’  graves ! 

On  that  day  may  all  false  traitors  shun  us, 

As  we  sweep  o’er  the  red  field  of  gore, 

May  the  great  God  of  battle  smile  on  us, 

And  we’ll  crown  thee  with  freedom  once  more. 


424 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


TO  MARY. 


O,  what  were  my  student  life  but  gloom, 

While  the  moon  shines  in  through  my  window  pane, 

If  I could  not  dream  in  my  lonely  room, 

And  call  up  Raney’s  aerial  train  ? 

ii. 

The  moon  is  up  o’er  the  eastern  rocks, 

And  shineth  bright  through  my  window  pane ; 

The  small  clouds  float  by  her  face,  like  flocks 
Of  gorgeous  birds  on  an  orient  plain. 

hi. 

And  aye  as  the  sweet  moon  smiles  on  me 
With  a holy  smile  through  my  window  pane, 

0,  many  a dear,  dear  dream  of  thee 
Enlivens  my  bosom  and  fills  my  brain. 

IV. 

O,  many  a mile  in  thought  I rove, 

While  the  moon  shines  in  through  my  window  pane, 

Till  I clasp  in  my  arms  my  own  dear  love, 

And  thy  lips  of  coral  I kiss  again. 


v. 

Then  a paradise  gleams  around  me  clear, 

While  the  moon  shines  in  through  my  window  pane ; 
And  I hear  thy  voice,  and  I see  thee  near, 

And  I drink  thy  murmurs  of  love  again. 

VI. 

Then  what  were  my  student  life  but  gloom, 

While  the  moon  shines  in  through  my  window  pane, 
If  I could  not  dream  in  my  lonely  room, 

And  call  up  Fancy’s  aerial  train  ? 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


425 


OLD  LAND. 

Air  — “ My  Father  built  a Baby  House.” 

I. 

Old  Land  of  English  knavery, 

Misrule,  misfortune,  slavery,  — 

Old  Land  of  Irish  bravery, 

With  you  we’ll  fall  or  stand ; 

And  though  we’re  exiled  far  away, 

For  you  we  work,  for  you  we  pray, 

And  raise  our  good  swords  high,  and  say, 
“ A health  to  you,  Old  Land ! ” 

Sing  hey  ! sing  ho  ! the  Irish  Green  ! 
Sing  hey ! sing  ho  ! our  weapons  keen 
Shall  plant  it  where  the  Red  has  been 
On  all  thy  shores,  Old  Land ! 


ii. 

Old  Land,  a lesson  sad  we’ve  got ; 
Amongst  ourselves  we  raged  and  fought, 
And  your  destruction  nearly  wrought, 
Each  fratricidal  band ; 

But  we  will  make  our  promise  good, 
We’ll  join  in  faithful  brotherhood, 

And  on  the  red  field  spill  our  blood, 

Or  free  you  yet,  Old  Land ! 

Sing  hey ! sing  ho  ! &c. 

hi. 

Old  Land,  if  ’mid  thy  teeming  race 
There  grew  some  traitors,  bad  and  base, 
Yet  sure  even  murderous  Cain’s  disgrace 
Our  primal  Mother  banned ; 

And  those  fell  traitors  you  have  nursed, 
Of  foes  the  deadliest  and  the  worst, 
Earth  holds  their  villain  names  accursed 
Forevermore,  Old  Land ! 

Sing  hey ! sing  ho  ! &c. 


426 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


IV. 

Old  Land ! May  God  inspire  our  souls 
To  safely  steer  o’er  Faction’s  shoals, 
And  sure  as  yonder  sun  outrolls 
At  morn  his  banners  grand, 

Our  breast  will  make  a shield  for  you ; 
We’ll  die  on  War’s  red  field  for  you, 

And  win,  but  never  yield  for  you 
One  inch  of  ground,  Old  Land ! 

Sing  hey  ! sing  ho  ! the  Irish  Green, 
Sing  hey  ! sing  ho  ! our  weapons  keen 
Shall  plant  it  where  the  Red  has  been 
On  all  thy  shores,  Old  Land! 


EILEEN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  HAIR. 

Air— “Eileen  Ban.” 


Come  with  me  to  Mora’s  bowers, 

Far  in  wild  Glenara’s  dell, 

Where  the  sunny  sward  with  flowers 
Glitters  round  the  fairy  well ; 

Where  the  green  leaves  quiver  o’er  us 
To  the  jocund  summer  air, 

All  things  bright,  and  life  before  us, 
Eileen  of  the  golden  hair. 

ii. 

Darkness  reigned  within  my  bosom, 
By  our  early  sorrows  cast ; 

Thou  hast  set  a blooming  blossom 
In  that  desert  land  at  last; 

Thou  hast  taught  my  soul  to  borrow 
Sun-bright  hope  from  black  despair ; 

That  there  comes  a gladsome  morrow, 
Eileen  of  the  golden  hair. 


SONGS,  POEMS,  AND  SHORT  BALLADS. 


427 


hi. 

Then  away  to  Mora’s  bowers, 

Deep  in  wild  Glenara’s  dell ; 

There  we’ll  spend  the  summer  hours, 
’Neath  the  green  leaves,  loving  well. 
Not  a cloud  shall  linger  o’er  us, 

Cloud  of  woe  or  blighting  care,  — 
All  things  bright,  and  life  before  us, 
Eileen  of  the  golden  hair. 


BOSTON  COLLEGE 


9031  01254682 


DOES  NOT  CIRCULATE 


* 12613 

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